


A Perfect Storm

by dracoqueen22



Series: The Perfect Storm [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, BDSM themes, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mechpreg, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-01-06 19:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18394940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Blurr happens to enjoy life on post-war Cybertron, but when a serial murderer starts targeting former Wreckers, Blurr ends up saddled with a bodyguard who rubs him in all the wrong ways. Or right ways, if you were to ask Ricochet. Let the battle begin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReignitedN7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReignitedN7/gifts).



Bars were, in Jazz’s opinion, some of the best places to think.   
  
Especially midday when most mechs were at their duties or their jobs, and the majority of the tables were empty of patrons, except people who didn’t want to be bothered. Jazz was one such mech. He wanted the atmosphere -- the smell of engex, the low murmur of noise and music, the dim lights and the friendly company -- but he didn’t want the rest of it.   
  
He needed to concentrate. He needed to focus. He was in one Pit of a fragged up situation.   
  
“Refill?”   
  
“Primus, yes,” Jazz groaned as he set down one datapad and picked up another, flicking through the same notes and observations he’d read a dozen times already. “Maybe I’ll get smarter if I get drunker.”   
  
Bluestreak snorted and swept up his empty cube, replacing it with a fresh one. “I don’t think it works that way.”   
  
Jazz grabbed the engex and examined it with a keen optic. “Maybe if I try real hard…”   
  
Bluestreak laughed quietly, and Jazz pretended he didn’t notice the way it made his spinal strut tingle. “The hard work should be focused on the clues and reports.” His sensory panels gave a little twitch as he leaned in, the scent of his wax cloaking him in an enticing aroma. He peered over Jazz’s shoulder at the datapad. “How many?”   
  
“Five so far.” Jazz sighed. Typically, he wouldn’t show classified information to a civvie, but Bluestreak didn’t count as one, retired as he might be from the Autobot army. He was a bartender now, but training didn’t get erased because of retirement.   
  
“What makes you think they’re connected?”   
  
Jazz tapped the edge of a datapad. “These are skilled, well-trained mechs. They aren’t dying in muggings or random robberies or accidents. They’re being executed.” He glanced at a different datapad. “Springer’s the only survivor so far, and Ratch isn’t sure he’ll make it.”   
  
Bluestreak frowned and leaned closer, his chassis brushing Jazz’s shoulder, and the shiver of anticipation that sent through Jazz was wholly inappropriate in the moment. “Springer,” he repeated, and his optics narrowed. He pointed to one datapad after another. “Pyro. Rotorstorm. Quickstrike. Hubcap.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“You don’t see it?”   
  
“Should I?” Jazz took a long gulp of his engex. It no longer burned, but it settled warm and comforting in his tanks. He was losing his mind with this case, and part of him wished he hadn’t taken it off Prowl’s hands.   
  
But he also wanted to stop feeling useless, and something this complicated and politically dangerous couldn’t be handled by anyone else.   
  
“They’re all Wreckers,” Bluestreak said. “Or were anyway since the Wreckers were disbanded once the truce went into effect.” He straightened, and Jazz told himself not to mourn the distance.   
  
Jazz cycled his optics behind his visor and tugged the datapads closer, reading through the bios of the five mechs again. Springer was obvious. So were Pyro and Rotorstorm, but somehow, he’d missed that in Quickstrike because the mech had served much longer in one of Prowl’s adjacent special ops units.   
  
But Bluestreak was right. Every single one of the mechs attacked had spent a portion of their Autobot service as a Wrecker.   
  
He shouldn’t have missed it.   
  
Primus, he was tired.   
  
“Blue, you’re a genius.” Jazz downed the rest of his engex and started dumping datapads into multiple compartments. He had to get this information to Prowl as soon as possible.   
  
There were a lot more Wreckers on Cybertron right now, since Rodimus Prime had called back every unit he could get a hold of. Most mechs came home. Most didn’t mind the disbanding of their various units. People wanted to embrace peace, they wanted to stop fighting.   
  
Jazz could think of at least a dozen former Wreckers off the top of his head. Potential targets now. If this killer was truly targeting Wreckers, then something had to be done. To warn them, protect them.   
  
And find the mech responsible.   
  
Bluestreak swept the second empty cube from the table. “You’d have figured it out eventually, I’m sure. Tell Prowl I said ‘hello’.” He balanced the tray in one hand, leaving Jazz with a wink.   
  
Jazz absolutely didn’t watch Bluestreak walk away, offering a smile to another patron at a table as he picked up empty cubes before slipping back behind the bar. It was a slow, slow day, which was why Blurr was at home, and Bluestreak was the only one working.   
  
There were other bars on Cybertron, in Autobot City, but Jazz preferred this one, New Maccadam’s. Not only because he played here most weekends and made it great on tips and even occasionally popped behind the bar to spell whoever was on duty, and not only because one of his best friends owned the place.   
  
It might have had something to do with Bluestreak. Not that Jazz would ever admit it aloud.   
  
Some embarrassing secrets were better kept secret.   
  


~

  
  
Prowl was not having a good month.   
  
He was perpetually running a week behind on his paperwork -- something he’d manage to maintain even during the war. His Prime kept vanishing for secret rendezvous with the Decepticon Winglord, rendezvous he thought Prowl knew nothing about. And someone was murdering Autobots in his city, under his nose, and making little attempt to hide it.   
  
His best spy had yet to find Prowl a perpetrator no matter how much Prowl pushed him, and pretty soon, the lid on this boiling cauldron would fly right off.   
  
Granted, this was better than war. But then, most things were.   
  
Prowl sighed and tossed down his stylus. His head ached, he’d read the same line three times, and he had accomplished nothing. He needed to rest, recharge, refuel. He needed to not be at his desk for three more hours.   
  
He logged off his computer and shut it down. He glared at the stack of datapads on the corner of his desk, long overdue, and decided that since Rodimus Prime didn’t read them on time anyway, why should he worry about taking them home?   
  
Prowl stepped out from behind his desk, flicking his sensory panels to ease a cramp in the hinge. He thought longingly of the bottle of newly brewed Protohex Eddy sitting by his berthside.   
  
His door whooshed open, and Prowl drew up short, blinking. That was supposed to be locked.   
  
Then Jazz strode inside with a slag-eating grin, and that explained everything. Or at least part of it. There were few mechs capable of effortlessly hacking Prowl’s locks.   
  
“The Wreckers,” he declared, gesturing at Prowl with a datapad.   
  
Prowl sighed and scrubbed his forehead. “They’re disbanded, remember? I’m not allowed to use them anymore.” Which was a shame, because he could have made great use of them given the current state of affairs. An expendable, highly trained fighting force was worth twice its weight in clear-mined energon.   
  
“That’s not what I meant.” Jazz huffed and slapped him in the chassis with the datapad. “The victims. They’re all Wreckers.”   
  
Prowl blinked.   
  
He took the datapad and flicked it on, surveying the details of the investigation again, this time with the new information. Jazz was right. So far, every mech killed had spent a portion of their Autobot service in the Wreckers regiment, significant or otherwise.   
  
“Who’s doing it?” Prowl asked.   
  
“I don’t know yet. But it’s only a matter of time. Now that I got a pattern, I can figure out a motive and figure out who. Until then…” Jazz shifted from foot to foot and wiggled one hand from side to side. “You gotta warn the rest of the Wreckers on planet.”   
  
Prowl frowned. “Warn them?”   
  
Jazz’s visor flickered. “That someone out there is killing Wreckers? They need to know to look out for themselves. We gotta get them some protection or something.”   
  
“And cause a panic?”  
  
“Better they know!”   
  
Prowl’s engine revved. Jazz glared at him. Here they were, back to their usual stances, on one side of a very thin line.   
  
Prowl rubbed his forehead again, the ache behind his optics sharp and pulsing. “Individually,” he conceded. “Warn them quietly. Arrange for protection to those who want it. But if you want to save their sparks, the quickest way to do so is to catch the mech responsible.”   
  
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Jazz scowled and snatched his datapad from Prowl’s hand. He nearly took a layer of paint with it. “Don’t worry, Prowl. I’ll keep yer precious peace. It’s what you’re paying me for.”   
  
He spun on a heelstrut and stormed out of the room with as much anger as he could muster given the door opened for him and closed quietly. Emotional, that one could be, though Primus knew he allowed only a select few to see it. Prowl wondered when he’d started qualifying.   
  
Perhaps the moment he and Jazz agreed they were friends. Not that anyone else would be able to qualify their association as friendship. It was unique.   
  
Prowl sighed. He thought longingly of his bottle of Protohex Eddy. And then he turned and went back to his desk, logging back into the network to pull up every file on every Autobot who had ever served as a Wrecker.   
  
There had to be something in their mission reports, their histories, to explain why someone was trying to murder them. There were nanobytes of data crammed into the system. It would take him hours to go through all of the reports and start forming cross-referenced database.   
  
Needs must.   
  
Prowl set his jaw and got to work.   
  


~

  
  
Blurr’s leg bounced up and down, up and down. He clicked through the channels, too fast to pay much attention, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything anyway. Sound flashed by, little snippets of conversation.   
  
Boring, boring, boring.   
  
Blurr sighed and thumped his head back against the top of the couch. Maybe he should go ahead and go into work. He wasn’t accomplishing anything at home. He wasn’t busy or otherwise occupied.   
  
He was bored. Tracks was busy. Jazz was working. Drift was off-planet on his “honeymoon” with Ratchet -- who’d been dragged almost kicking and screaming, no less, Doc was a little allergic to rest and relaxation.  
  
Blurr had no choice but to be alone, and he didn’t like it one bit. He wanted to be entertained and none of his playmates were available.   
  
Bounce, bounce, bounce.   
  
Blurr shot up from the couch. He would go for a run, see if there was anyone worth a challenge out there.   
  
He made it two quick steps to the door before it chimed at him. Oh, thank Primus.   
  
Blurr flung the door open without bothering to check the ident code of his visitor. A familiar black and white frame came into view, the flash of a blue visor putting a huge grin on Blurr’s face.   
  
“Tell me you’re off shift,” Blurr demanded.   
  
“Technically.” Jazz’s grin was easy and sexy, and Blurr wanted to taste it. “But I’m still working. Ya know how it is.”   
  
Blurr snorted, snagged Jazz by the shoulder, and tugged him inside. “Work later. Berthroom now.”   
  
Jazz stumbled along with him, a laugh spilling from his lips. “What? You’re not even going to buy me dinner first? What kinda mech you think I am?”   
  
“As easy as I am.” Blurr crowded Jazz against the wall and kissed him, a shiver of want spilling up his backstrut as Jazz opened to the kiss, their glossa meeting in a hot tangle.   
  
Yes. This. This right here was exactly what Blurr’s fractured attention span wanted.   
  
He hummed and grabbed Jazz’s hips, pulling him in for a nice grind of metal on metal, heat pooling southward. Jazz’s field stroked along his with tendrils of electric fire, and a moan rattled in Blurr’s intake.   
  
“I actually came here for somethin’ important,” Jazz said, but he grabbed Blurr’s aft and rocked right back, charge flicking between their frames in bright bursts. He nibbled on Blurr’s lips, head tilting upward into the kiss, his vents puffing heat back at Blurr.   
  
“Later,” Blurr insisted against Jazz’s mouth, and nudged a knee between his thighs, giving Jazz something to grind against. The hot press of Jazz’s clearly eager frame was intoxicating. .   
  
“‘Kay,” Jazz said, beautifully pliant.   
  
Blurr laughed and yanked Jazz away from the wall. Not that he was averse to fragging the gorgeous spy here in the entryway. He had, after all, done it before. But a berth would be preferable. If he could be comfortable, he wanted to be.   
  
Post-war peace-time had spoiled him.   
  
“Are you feelin’ neglected there, racer-boy?” Jazz asked with a chuckle as he let himself be pulled. His field slid over Blurr’s, electric-fire prickling at Blurr’s sensor net and flooding him with heat.   
  
“More like bored.” Blurr flicked the lights to fifty-percent and swung Jazz back into his arms, holding the spy’s chin with both hands to devour him with a kiss.   
  
He knew he’d applied the right kind of pressure when Jazz moaned, gripped at his wrists, and struggled to stay standing. His field flickered and wavered, then clung to Blurr’s stickily. Hungrily. Arousal tangibly wafted around him.   
  
Blurr grinned. “But you’ll entertain me, right?”   
  
“I’m not a toy,” Jazz muttered, but he backed toward the berth and towed Blurr with him, his panels springing open, the glitter of his biolights as inviting as his field.   
  
“Does that mean I can’t play with you?” Blurr teased as his mouth filled with lubricant. He grabbed Jazz’s hips, hoisting his aft onto the bed with Jazz’s assistance, and nudged his way between Jazz’s thighs.   
  
Valve lights blinked up at him in arrhythmic pulses. Lubricant shone wetly within the depths of Jazz’s valve, and Blurr wanted to taste him.   
  
He hummed and cradled Jazz’s hips, leaning forward to give Jazz a long, savoring lick. A hissed vent erupted from Jazz’s vents, his backstrut curving as he fisted the berth cover. Biolights glittered invitingly.   
  
“If you keep doing that, then it’s okay with me.” Jazz threw his legs up over Blurr’s shoulders, calves tugging him up to ride Blurr’s face.   
  
Blurr grinned and licked Jazz again, licked deep into the center of him, lapping up the sweetness of his lubricant. Jazz shivered and rocked against his mouth, his valve swelling and biolights eagerly dancing. He pawed at Blurr’s crest, trying to direct his head where Jazz wanted it most.   
  
Blurr resisted. He licked Jazz’s rim, tasting every one of the microsensors before he latched lips and denta on Jazz’s anterior node and added pressure, just enough for Jazz’s sensornet to feel it.   
  
“Frag!” Jazz yelped and jerked hard against Blurr’s mouth, his vents flaring in a wide burst of air.   
  
“Too much?” Blurr asked as he flicked the tip of his glossa over the throbbing nub, knowing good and well that wasn’t the problem.   
  
Jazz’s visor flashed blue at him. He growled, “You know it slag-well wasn’t.” His feet drummed Blurr’s upper back. “Again.”   
  
Blurr licked his lips and tilted his head, savoring the taste of Jazz. “Nope.” He popped the word and slid two fingers into Jazz’s valve instead, curving them to rub fiercely on the cluster of microsensors right behind his rim.   
  
Charge danced over Jazz’s armor, and he writhed on the berth, leg tires setting into a lazy spin. His headlights flickered, head tilting back to bare the column of his intake.   
  
Blurr’s panel popped, his spike emerging with a throb of want. Arousal coiled heavy in his groin, setting into a dull, demanding pulse. He stroked Jazz again, soaked in the sight of him writhing, before he put a knee on the berth.   
  
He mouthed a blinking headlight first, crawling over Jazz, the spy’s legs falling to curl around his hips, tugging him into position. His spikehead bumped over a dripping valve, and they both shivered.   
  
“You need more playmates.” Jazz hooked his fingers in Blurr’s seams and tried to tug him closer, angle him better.   
  
“I need the ones I have to be more available,” Blurr corrected with a laugh. He bit Jazz’s intake, denta applying enough pressure to leave a mark. It would be gone by morning.   
  
Jazz shuddered, his visor flashing and his field spiking with volcanic need. He drummed his heels on the back of Blurr’s thighs. “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a damned tease-- ah!”   
  
Blurr sank forward, filling Jazz to the hilt in one quick thrust. Calipers fluttered and rippled around him. Charge spilled out of Jazz’s nodes, feeding into Blurr’s sensors. He groaned as slick heat clamped around his spike.   
  
He buried deep and lingered, grinding hard on Jazz's ceiling node. Jazz's valve squeezed and flexed around him. More charge erupted from beneath Jazz's armor, and he grabbed Blurr's sides, fingers digging into his seams.   
  
"More," Jazz demanded, thighs pressing inward, squeezing.   
  
"You're too damn bossy," Blurr panted and curved forward, stealing Jazz's lips to silence the demands.   
  
He retreated and plunged in again, hard and fast thrusts, driving into Jazz as fierce and deep as the spy wanted it. A whine spilled from Jazz's intake, his hands scrabbling over Blurr's armor, head falling back to bare his intake again.   
  
Blurr took advantage, falling upon it with lips and denta. Electric fire zipped up and down his backstrut as he took Jazz's valve again and again, the calipers squeezing tight and nodes erupting charge over his sensors. His spike throbbed, pleasure twisting and churning in his gut, tightening into a spring that demanded release.   
  
Jazz gasped and bucked beneath him, his field tingling over Blurr's frame in a wave of static fire. His thighs clamped harder, metal skidding against metal, his spike jutting free with an audible snick, the tip of it scrubbing over Blurr's abdominal armor. He left smears of prefluid on Blurr's plating.   
  
"Yeah, but ya still gave me more," Jazz said, a cocky grin on his lips that made Blurr's engine rev.   
  
"I have terrible impulse control." Blurr braced his weight on one hand and wrapped his fingers around Jazz's spike with the other, giving him a squeeze.   
  
Jazz made a strangled noise and sank his fingers into Blurr's seam, pressing hard on the cables beneath. A shock of pleasure rippled across Blurr's sensory net. He moaned and bit down on Jazz's intake again, pinning a cable between his denta, the rapid flutter of Jazz's spark beat dancing against his lips.   
  
"I'm fond of your lack of it," Jazz groaned and bucked up against him, hips rising to meet each of Blurr's thrusts, his vents rapid and straining.   
  
Blurr squeezed his spike and stroked him faster, his fingers painted in streaks of pre-fluid as Jazz writhed beneath him. His head tossed back again, charge erupting from beneath his armor, before he overloaded, valve clamping tight and spike spurting over Blurr's fist.   
  
Jazz keened, blue charge dancing over his armor in a beautiful wave as his valve clutched and spat electric heat over Blurr’s spike. It cycled down, pulling him deeper. Blurr groaned, both hands gripping Jazz’s hips to yank him into each thrust, bearing Jazz down into the berth.   
  
The coil tightened inside of him, twisting and twisting, holding a tension near to bursting. Blurr groaned, head tilting forward, vents coming in sharp bursts. He thrust, again and again, the berth creaking, Jazz’s hands scraping at his armor, and it wasn’t until he focused past the roaring in his audials that he heard Jazz chanting, “yes, yes, yes!”  
  
Jazz’s valve clutched hungrily at his spike, feeding him burst after burst of charge. A surge of electricity spat out of his nodes, zapping Blurr’s sensors, and he shattered. He slammed into Jazz, holding himself deep. Spurts of transfluid painted Jazz’s valve, and Blurr circled his hips, grinding the base of his array against Jazz’s.   
  
Claws sank into his side seams, lightly pricking the cables beneath, a brief stab of pain to flavor the ecstasy. Jazz’s head tossed back as he overloaded again, circuits tripped on the charge-loop between their units.   
  
Awareness went hot-white. Blurr groaned, long and low, and collapsed forward, vents whirring and frame trembling as overload left him twitching and spent. Jazz shoved at his shoulders, grumbling a protest.   
  
“Get off.”   
  
“I just did.” Blurr chuckled and used the last of his strength to tip to the side, sliding out of Jazz and sprawling across his oversized berth. A pleasant langor started to set in, and he soaked it up.   
  
Much better entertainment. So much better.   
  
“Yeah, the mess between my thighs is proof,” Jazz drawled. He socked Blurr on the shoulder, pulled himself a bit further on the berth, and sprawled over the remaining space, thighs splayed, messy array on display.   
  
Blurr hummed and slid a palm over Jazz’s thigh, fingers gently stroking the mess around his valve rim. “Another round?”  
  
“Give me a fragging minute.” The back of Jazz’s hand thwapped his shoulder. “I did come here for a reason. Gotta talk to you.”   
  
“Talking should be the last thing on your mind.” Blurr propped his head up with his free hand, though he left the other to idly stroke Jazz’s sensitive nodes, provoking a shiver. “But whatever. What’s so important you had to rush over here?”   
  
Jazz wriggled away from his hand, though there was reluctance in his field. “You’re in danger.”   
  
Blurr snorted and took his hand back, wiggling his fingers to watch the glimmer of lubricant across them. “Sure I am.”   
  
“I’m serious.”   
  
“From what?”   
  
“I don’t know yet.” Jazz sat up and scooted off the berth before spinning back around to face Blurr. “Someone’s killing Wreckers which means you’re on the list.”   
  
“I’m not a Wrecker anymore,” Blurr pointed out.   
  
“Technically no one is. They’re disbanded. That’s not stopping this maniac though.” Jazz sighed and brushed ineffectually at the lubricant painting his thighs. “Springer’s in the medcenter. They almost got him.”   
  
Blurr frowned. That was news to him. Springer was a pretty well-known and popular Autobot. If he was attacked and under medical care, why didn’t everyone know?   
  
This had Prowl written all over it.   
  
Still.   
  
“I think you’re overestimating my relevance. I was barely a Wrecker.” Most Autobots didn’t remember he’d been one. Blurr was more famous for what he was before the war, not during it, and only a little bit in the aftermath. He hadn’t made much of a name for himself as a soldier.   
  
Jazz scrubbed a hand over his forehead. Someone needed to tell him he looked an awful lot like Prowl when he did that. “I want you to have some backup.”   
  
“I don’t follow.” Blurr sat up. He suspected there would be no round two. The mood was gone.   
  
“Backup. A bodyguard preferably.” Jazz started to pace, one hand on his chin, still talking but not so much at Blurr as thinking aloud. “You live alone. Your address is publically known and so is your schedule. You’re an easy target. I’ll have to find someone with an equal skillset who isn’t a target themselves.”   
  
Blurr slid off the berth, intercepting Jazz mid-pace. “I don’t want a bodyguard. I don’t need one. I can take care of myself.”   
  
“But ya can’t watch yer own back,” Jazz said, jabbing Blurr in the chestplate. His accent betrayed his anxiety.   
  
Any other time, it would have been cute.   
  
Blurr folded his arms and set his jaw. “No.”   
  
“Blurr, I’m bein’ serious here.”   
  
“So am I!” He chuffed a vent and walked out of the berthroom, unsurprised when Jazz followed. “Don’t waste your resources on me. I’m fine. Go look after some other mech. I’ve got this.” He beelined for the washrack, the lubricant and other fluids drying tacky and sticky on his armor. “Now come on. Let’s wash up, and get back to something fun.”   
  
Jazz loitered in the doorway of the washrack -- it was smaller than Blurr would have liked, but being as most mechs had to trek to a communal one, he wasn’t going to complain. Blurr couldn’t read the look in Jazz’s visor either. Sometimes, he turned inscrutable again, better resembling the Spec Ops mech who haunted many a Decepticon nightmare, rather than the amiable singer who often played in Blurr’s bar.   
  
“Nah,” Jazz said, leaning against the jamb. “I’m still workin’, and I got others to warn. Maybe I’ll come back for that second round.”   
  
Blurr spiraled his optics into a small, suspicious squint. “You’re angry.”   
  
Jazz waved him off. “No, I’m thinkin’. If you’re gonna be stubborn about this, then that means I gotta find the mech doin’ this ASAP, or I’m gonna lose my favorite berth partner.” Half his visor fluttered in a wink Blurr didn’t believe for a second.   
  
He’d known Jazz long enough to know that when his accent slipped, it was because he was swallowing down an emotion he didn’t want others to read. Probably fury in this case.   
  
“Suit yourself.” Blurr shrugged and flicked on the spray, tepid solvent rapidly warming to hot, filling the room with steam.   
  
Jazz was gone by the time he turned back around.   
  
Solo shower it was.   
  


***


	2. Chapter 2

“I need a favor.”   
  
Those were the first words out of his twin’s mouth, and Ricochet barely had a moment to marvel at the rarity of them before Jazz invited himself into Ricochet’s tiny apartment.   
  
“Come on in,” Ricochet said as he let the door close and followed the agitated swirl of his brother’s field into the main room. He dropped down on the edge of the lounge, visor tracking Jazz’s pacing. “Pleasure to see you, bro. Nice of ya to remember I exist.”   
  
It’d been a week, maybe more, since Jazz had last popped into his life. Ricochet didn’t know why his twin suddenly decided to play ghost. He didn’t ask, he didn’t poke, he didn’t pry. Jazz’s business was Jazz’s business. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be snide about it.   
  
“I’ve been busy,” Jazz said, and he sounded distracted. It was certainly in his field, that and worry, too. He was working himself into a tizzy over something.   
  
Ricochet made a noncommittal noise. “Right.” He sniffed, got a whiff of ozone and lubricant, and a curl of anger started in his belly. If Jazz was agitated because some mech had laid hands where they shouldn’t, Ricochet was not going to be happy.   
  
Jazz clipped to a halt and spun toward him. His gaze flicked over Ricochet, up and down, like seeing him for the first time. “I need a favor,” he repeated.   
  
“Heard ya the first time.” He half-hoped this favor involved his collection of vibro-knives, an untraceable map, and a name.   
  
“It’s a big one,” Jazz said, and he dropped to his knees, crossing the floor in a few awkward slides until he nudged his way between Ricochet’s feet.   
  
He sat back, making room for his brother. “I’m listening.” When Jazz’s requests started with him on his knees, Ricochet’s listening turned up to eleven.   
  
“Yer gonna have to trust me,” Jazz said, his palms skating up Ricochet’s knee to thigh, sliding down and inward, until his thumbs brushed Ricochet’s panel. He looked up, glossa sweeping over his lips. “It’s going to be a pain in the aft.”   
  
Ricochet cupped the back of his twin’s head. “Your favors usually are.” Not an assassination then. Ricochet tended to enjoy those. Kidnapping maybe? Those definitely qualified as a pain in the aft.   
  
A quirk of a lip was Jazz’s answer before he bowed his head and licked a hot, wet line over Ricochet’s spike panel. Pleasure danced up his spinal strut. So. It was to be like that then?   
  
Well, all right.   
  
Ricochet popped his panel, let his spike extend, and Jazz immediately took the head of it into his mouth, suckling and prodding at the slit with the tip of his glossa. Mmm. Such a good spike-sucker his brother was. One of the best.   
  
“Must be a serious favor,” Ricochet hummed. “To get you down on your knees so soon. I didn’t even get the chance to say no.”   
  
Jazz smirked around his spike and sucked him deeper, into his intake, flexing the cables around his spike. Ricochet gnawed on his bottom lip. Been a week since he’d seen his twin, and longer htan that since he’d been buried in Jazz’s intake. A mech had needs, and since Ricochet was mostly persona non grata to both sides of the conflict, it was harder to find partners who wanted a tussle in the berth.   
  
“Ya suck spike like you were born for it,” Ricochet groaned and cradled his twin’s head with both hands, adjusting the angle so he could go deeper.   
  
Jazz hummed, talons sinking into Ricochet’s thighs, as his glossa lashed the length of Ricochet’s spike. He swallowed again, and Ricochet shuddered.   
  
“Now I’m really listening,” Ricochet said, loosening his grasp to allow Jazz to speak.   
  
His brother didn’t. Jazz laughed around his spike and took him deeper instead, the light behind his visor shifting up toward Ricochet. His field pulsed invitation, his fingertips leaving scrapes in Ricochet’s armor.   
  
Talk later then. Fine by him.   
  
Ricochet grasped Jazz’s head and held him in place, bracing his feet on the ground to get a nice, good thrust. Jazz moaned, engine revving, lust pouring into his field and slamming into Ricochet.   
  
“Yes,” he hissed. “Take my spike, bro. Like you love it.”   
  
Jazz moaned, and his panel popped, spike bobbing free. Ricochet grinned as Jazz reached down and started jerking himself off with frantic motions, oral lubricant leaking out the corner of his mouth.   
  
Ricochet bucked into his intake, grinding against his face, and Jazz just sucked him harder, swallowing around his spike as if he needed transfluid to sate his hunger. There was no protest to Ricochet burying himself to the hilt, cutting of Jazz’s oral ventilations, forcing him to redirect his air flows.   
  
There was hunger in his field, yearning, too. Ricochet could taste the pleasure on him, knew Jazz had already overloaded once today, maybe even recently. But he was so revved up now, it was like no one had touched him in days.   
  
He needed more than those playmates of his would give him.   
  
“You need an owner,” Ricochet grunted as he thrust into his brother’s intake, over and over, long and deep strokes that took and took without offering anything back, just like Jazz wanted.   
  
“Not just me either,” Ricochet continued as Jazz’s strokes picked up in earnest, and more lubricant spilled out of the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin. “But someone who can really throw ya down and give ya what ya need.”   
  
Ah, and what a picture it would be. Jazz, bound and splayed open, either gagged or with an o-ring, open for their pleasure. He’d beg for it with wordless noises and with every writhe of his frame, but they’d torment him, open him up, feed him ecstasy without letting him tip over the edge. They’d use him, and he’d thank them for it.   
  
Ricochet groaned, his fingers tightening on his brother’s head. “You’re mine right now though. And that’s where yer gonna stay.” He thrust hard and deep, mashing Jazz’s nose against his base, and overloaded down his brother’s intake.   
  
Jazz moaned, his field exploding with fiery satisfaction. He swallowed hard, sucking down every drop, and then he shuddered from head to foot, the smell of overload filling the air. Ricochet didn’t have to check to know Jazz had overloaded, splattering the ground with his transfluid.   
  
Ricochet held himself deep, through every last tremor, before he let Jazz pull back, though he kept a firm grip on his brother’s jaw. He swept his thumb over Jazz’s chin, slick with lubricant and bubbles of transfluid. Jazz’s lips were swollen and slick, his visor hazy with satisfaction. It was a good look on him.   
  
“I’m convinced,” Ricochet purred and yanked Jazz upward, slamming their mouths together. He tasted himself on Jazz’s glossa.   
  
Jazz moaned, scrabbling at his chestplate before catching a grip in a seam. He hauled himself to straddling Ricochet’s leg, scrubbing his bared valve over Ricochet’s thigh.   
  
“Primus, you’re sexy,” Ricochet growled as he jerked Jazz’s head up so he could bite at his twin’s intake, feeling the bob of Jazz’s swallow against his lips.   
  
Jazz rocked harder. “Would ya even stand it if I had an owner that wasn’t you?” he gasped, his fingers sliding beneath Ricochet’s seams and shooting charge against his cables.   
  
“Depends on the mech.” Ricochet grinned against Jazz’s intake and bit him hard enough to leave a mark.   
  
Jazz jerked and another moan slipped out of his lips. “Good to know.”   
  
Ricochet chuckled and sat back, admiring the rock and sway of Jazz on his leg. His brother had the monopoly on attractiveness. “So,” he said as he held Jazz by the thighs so he could grind himself however he wished, “what’s this favor you want of me?”   
  
“It’s right up your alley,” Jazz said, voice a little raspy.   
  
Ricochet smirked with pride. He curled a hand around his brother’s intake, half-squeezing, half-stroking to soothe the ache. Jazz’s visor flickered, his fingers curving into Ricochet’s seams.   
  
“Go on,” Ricochet said.   
  
Jazz licked his lips, his chin still glistening with fluids. “You remember that bar I work at, yeah?”   
  
“‘Course.”   
  
“The owner, Blurr’s, a friend o’ mine,” Jazz said with another rock of his hips, smearing lubricant on Ricochet’s thigh. “He’s in danger. I gotta figure out who so I can’t stick around to protect him.”   
  
Ricochet barked a laugh and slid his other hand from Jazz’s hip to his groin, his thumb pressing in against Jazz’s anterior node cluster. His brother jerked, sucking in a sharp vent.   
  
“So why me?”   
  
“He’s stubborn.” Jazz’s head hung a little, his lips parted for small, breathy gasps. Bits of charge curled out from under his armor. “So are you. Figure he’s your kinda challenge.”   
  
“Hmm.” Ricochet tilted his head and rubbed harder on Jazz’s node, hard enough to hurt, though all it did was make Jazz shudder and whine. “I do like a challenge.”   
  
It wasn’t like he had anything else lined up. He didn’t have much in the ways of a job. Wasn’t much for a former special ops agent to do in a post-war world. Especially if that former agent was a Decepticon and not an Autobot.   
  
Though Jazz was right. This was a pain in the aft assignment. Killing someone was easy. Keeping them alive? Entirely different set of skills. Luckily, Ricochet had both.   
  
“Knew it.” Jazz panted and rocked his hips harder, grinding his valve down on Ricochet’s thigh. “So you’ll do it?”   
  
“Well, yer makin’ it mighty hard for me to refuse.” Ricochet dropped his hand to his spike, pressurizing once more, and swept a thumb over the tip, gathering the pearl of pre-fluid. He swept it over Jazz’s lips, watched him lick it up. “Slut.”   
  
Jazz grinned, and his visor flared with a bright yearning. “Wrapped around my finger,” he half-sang, half-gasped. His armor flared and more charge spilled out.   
  
Ricochet laughed. “Yeah, probably,” he said, and yanked Jazz in for a kiss.   
  


~

  
  
Weekdays were the quietest.   
  
Blurr didn’t mind working the weekdays. It gave him time to go through inventory, reorganize his supplies, wipe down parts of his bar he didn’t always clean… In general, it allowed him to make sure New Maccadam’s was the best place to be any time of the week. Weekdays weren’t the credmakers, but they were important.   
  
He had a grand total of three customers in his bar right now. Two were regulars, one was new. All of them quietly sipped their drinks in separate corners, three mechs who just wanted to be left alone to ruminate.   
  
Blurr was happy to oblige.   
  
He continued removing bottles of fine engex from the display behind the counter, readying a spray bottle and mesh cloth to wipe away the thin film of dust. It didn’t matter that he cleaned this weekly. He didn’t know where all the dust came from.   
  
Cybertron was perpetually dirty, he figured.   
  
The main door slid open, a small chime announcing a new customer. Blurr finished wiping one bottle, set it down, and turned to greet the newcomer.   
  
“Oh, it’s just you,” Blurr said as he tossed the meshtowel over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be working?”   
  
“Who says I’m not?” Jazz replied as he grinned and strode cockily up to the bar, another mech following at his heels.   
  
Slightly taller and broader than Jazz, there was something familiar about the mech Blurr couldn’t quite place. He was mainly red and white, with patches of gray, and a bright yellow visor and a cocky smirk Blurr instantly hated.   
  
“Fair point.” Blurr glanced past him at the mech before returning his attention to Jazz. “The usual?”   
  
“Nope. I’m workin’. Can’t drink.” Jazz hopped up on a stool and braced his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “Got a sec?”   
  
Blurr spread his hands. “I’m buried in customers right now.”   
  
“Smart aft.” Jazz chuckled and propped his chin on the heel of his palm. “So. You remember my brother, yeah?”   
  
Ohhh. Right. Ricochet. The Decepticon brother Jazz didn’t like to talk about until the war was over, and then it was hard to get Jazz to shut up about him. Blurr didn’t have any siblings, so he couldn’t relate. But that explained the familiarity.   
  
“We haven’t actually met,” Blurr said, giving Ricochet a sidelong look. “Why?”   
  
Ricochet nudged his way against the counter next to Jazz, ignoring the stool beside him, choosing instead to stand and lean forward, crowding into his twin’s space. “I hear there’s a damsel in distress ‘round here. I came to make sure he stays alive and well.”   
  
Blurr cycled his optics.   
  
He glanced at Jazz, who had a slag-eating grin, and back to Ricochet, who echoed Jazz, but with a mouth of partially sharpened denta.   
  
Realization struck.   
  
“Damn it,” Blurr growled, and slammed the towel on the counter. “I told you I don’t need protection.”   
  
“It’s not like yer the only one,” Jazz said with a rev of his engine. “Everyone else gets the special treatment, too.”   
  
Blurr pressed his lips into a thin line. He glared, hoping the heat of it was enough to dissuade Jazz from this very stupid idea.   
  
Jazz held up his hands and leaned back, the stool rocking beneath him. “Ya can’t get mad at me for trying to keep ya alive, Blurr. I ain’t gonna back down on this.”   
  
“I should have a choice,” Blurr hissed, slamming his hands onto the counter.   
  
“I could pull rank.”   
  
“We don’t  _have_  rank anymore, you aft,” Blurr snapped. “I’m not in the army.”   
  
Ricochet laughed, and his darker, deeper voice had no business making thrills dance down Blurr’s spinal strut. “You two are adorable.” He leaned against the counter, hands clasped in front of him. “Someone tries to save yer aft and you get mad about it? Who’s the real aft here, Speedy?”   
  
“My name is Blurr,” he snapped with a sharp look Ricochet’s direction. “And I don’t owe you an answer.”   
  
“Rico, you’re not helping.” Jazz scrubbed a hand around his mouth and sighed into his palm. “Look. I even made sure Whirl got a guard, okay? Though he’s arguably the safest of everyone. You’re not an exception, so just get over it. Rico won’t even get in your way.”   
  
Blurr ground his denta. He snagged the meshcloth and scrubbed at the clean counter, attacking a divot in the polished metal. “I don’t like this.”  
  
“I know ya don’t.” Jazz’s hand fell over his, stopping him from scrubbing. “But you’re doin’ me a favor if ya put up with it.”   
  
“Does that mean you owe me a favor?” Blurr asked. He could think of a half dozen ways he could cash that in.   
  
Ricochet laughed and nudged Jazz with an elbow. “Favors are your speciality,” he purred, leaning in to Jazz and nuzzling at his audial. “Aren’t they, bro?”   
  
Jazz chuffed, only to still, his hand raising to his audial. He half-turned away from them. “Jazz here. What is it?”   
  
Blurr glanced at Ricochet, and caught the other mech staring back at him, his visor sharp and cutting. It was too much like Jazz’s look for Blurr’s comfort. It sent a weird twinge through his sensor net.   
  
“What? When?” Jazz’s tone turned sharp and angry. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t touch anything!”   
  
He dropped his hand and whirled back toward them, his field a flash of frenzy before he coiled it behind a wall of emptiness.   
  
“There’s been another killing,” Jazz said, and he drew his former authority around him like a mantle. “Another Wrecker dead. Ricochet, you stay on Blurr like a second paintjob,” he commanded, pointing at his twin before he turned that point on Blurr. “And you’ll take him as a bodyguard whether you like it or not. Understood?”   
  
Ricochet lounged against the counter. “Whatever you say, bro.”   
  
Blurr ground his denta and scrubbed at the divot again. “Fine. But we’re not done talking about this.”   
  
“Yes, we are.”   
  
Jazz left, without giving Blurr or Ricochet a chance to argue otherwise. Not that Blurr had an argument ready. It was hard to argue with Jazz when he took that tone, and a part of Blurr was too accustomed to obeying military authority now.   
  
“Aft,” Blurr muttered.   
  
“Primus, I love it when he gets like that,” Ricochet said with a long look at Jazz’s departing aft. His armor fluttered in a visible shiver of interest. “I’d bend him over a table right now if I could.” His glossa swept over his lips.   
  
Blurr snorted and tossed the meshcloth into a basket for laundry. “Why am I not surprised that you’re as oversexed as your twin?”   
  
“From what I hear, you’re not one ta talk,” Ricochet drawled and rapped his knuckles on the counter. “So what’s good here? Can I get a drink or ya gonna leave me here to thirst?”   
  
Blurr narrowed his optics. “How are you going to be my bodyguard if you’re drunk?”   
  
“Gonna take a lot more than a single drink to get me anywhere near incapacitated.” Ricochet grinned, and it was a lazy curl of his lips over sharp denta. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep that fine aft of yours safe.”   
  
“Fantastic,” Blurr muttered. “This is going to be great.”   
  
He grabbed the cheapest engex he had on draft and poured Ricochet a cup, sliding it over to him.   
  
Ricochet’s visor fluttered in a wink, must’ve learned it from Jazz, and took a large gulp. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was admiring Blurr’s aft.   
  
Argh.   
  
Blurr didn’t like this one bit.   
  


~

  
  
Jazz had never met Leadfoot. He didn’t know anything about the former Wrecker except what was written in his official file and what was written in his mission reports. He seemed like an alright mech.   
  
He probably didn’t deserve what had been done to him.   
  
It would’ve been easier to connect the murders if they’d all been committed in the same manner. He didn’t know why the murderer had been particularly atrocious to Leadfoot. Maybe it was personal.   
  
Or maybe he (or she) was just upping the ante.   
  
“I want to know how someone can do this to another mech,” Prowl said as he glared out the window, his back to the crime scene, every line of his armor painted in fury.   
  
“Ya fought in the same war I did. Bots and Cons, we’ve done worst to each other,” Jazz replied.   
  
Once upon a time, he would have seen the mess of a mech like this and been sick to his tanks. The war had hardened him. Despite the splatter of brain bits, the streaks of energon blood, and the armor pieces flung about, Jazz barely blinked.   
  
“You misunderstand.” Prowl’s tone could have frozen a magma flow. His sensory panels stiffened. “I understand the horrors we are incapable of inflicting. What I don’t understand is why there is a maniac loose to do it when my best spy has reassured me he’s on the case.”   
  
Jazz stood, stepping over the mangled corpse of a former Autobot. “Rules are different now, Prowl. We can’t play things the way we used to. You know that.”   
  
Prowl shifted to see him over the jut of a shoulder and sensory panel. “Maybe it’s time we revisited old methods.”   
  
“What’s Prime say about that?”   
  
“Maybe Prime doesn’t have to know.”   
  
Jazz’s insides clenched. He wasn’t particularly loyal to the office of the Prime. He’d always been loyal to his own moral code. Rodimus was trying, just as hard as Optimus had, but they were both very faliable mechs.   
  
He moved closer to Prowl, so no one could hear their conversation. Some might call it treacherous.   
  
“I want this to end. The people of Cybertron need this to end,” Prowl murmured, wisely lowering the volume. “I don’t want anymore of my Autobots being slaughtered. Do whatever it takes, Jazz. That’s why I trusted you with this in the first place.”   
  
Jazz bobbed on his heelstruts. “Full permission?”   
  
Prowl slanted him a look. “Don’t take too much advantage of it.”   
  
"Since when have I ever done that?"   
  


~

  
  
Double-shifts were an inevitability.   
  
New Maccadam's was Blurr's bar, his pride and joy. He worked long hours, always on his feet, and he served and cleaned and mixed like the rest of his employees. He took the good shifts, he took the slag shifts, he took the double-shifts.   
  
Today was not a good day for a double-shift. It wasn't because business was slow, per the usual for a weekday. It wasn't because he'd had a supply delivery and spent a good portion of the shift hauling heavy boxes into the back.   
  
It was because Ricochet wouldn't stop staring at him.   
  
The aft didn't say anything. He just parked in a booth with a datapad and a revolving order of cheap engex, which he consumed steadily but never seemed to suffer any ill effects. When he wasn't engrossed in his datapad -- on which he was playing a game, Blurr had peeked when he'd gone by for a refill -- he was staring.   
  
At Blurr.   
  
Expression inscrutable thanks to the visor, the curve of one corner of Ricochet's mouth told Blurr all he needed to know. Ricochet wasn't just staring. He was  _leering_.   
  
He was Jazz's twin through and through.   
  
He didn't act embarrassed either. When Blurr caught him looking, he kept staring. He held Blurr's gaze, shifted to get a better look, made no attempt to hide what he was doing.   
  
Blurr was used to being stared at. It came with the territory of being a winner in the racing circuit, adored by fans and hated by the envious. He was used to being ogled. He was a bartender. Part of selling the product involved a wink and a grin and a little bit of a flirt.   
  
Ricochet's stare was heavier than it all. Like he was imagining all the different ways he could take Blurr and make him scream.   
  
The thought sent a shiver up his spinal strut. Which only made Blurr angrier. He didn't want to be attracted to Ricochet, but the annoying aft came in a pretty package, and there was something about that kind of raw confidence Blurr appreciated. Some might have called it arrogance, but Blurr knew a little something about arrogance himself.   
  
"I'm closing soon," Blurr informed him as he swept up Ricochet's empty and replaced it. "I suppose that means you'll be heading home."   
  
"Nope." Ricochet popped the word and leaned back, a lazy smirk on his lips. "You 'n me are gonna be roommates until big bro gives the all clear."   
  
Blurr reared back. "What?"   
  
"I wouldn't be much of a bodyguard if I sent ya home alone." Ricochet swept up the engex and gave it a long swallow, licking his lips afterward. "Hope your berth fits two."   
  
"Even if it did, you wouldn't be invited into it," Blurr snapped, and his engine revved. Oh, he and Jazz would have  _words_. "Besides, I have plans tonight. I don't need you tagging along."   
  
"Cancel them."   
  
Blurr glared. "No."   
  
Ricochet shrugged. "Then I guess I'm goin' with ya." He tipped back his cube and finished it off with a noisy, annoying smack of his lips. "Lemme know when it's time to go." He kicked back, scooped up his datapad, and started playing his game again.   
  
Blurr squared his jaw. Opened his mouth to argue. Realized it would get him nowhere. Snapped his jaw shut again. He spun on a heelstrut and stormed back toward his bar.   
  
Double-shifts were the worst.   
  


***


	3. Chapter 3

Blurr dragged out his closing routine. He half-hoped it would annoy Ricochet enough to leave. He might have also been delaying going home because Ricochet was apparently coming with him.   
  
Jazz owed him several favors for this.   
  
But weekdays were slow days so he'd spent all day cleaning and restocking and making his bar shine, which meant once it was time to close, he had nothing left to do.   
  
Ricochet, he noticed, didn't offer to help. He was content to drink for free ("Put it on Jazz's tab," he'd said with a leer.) and take up space in a booth.   
  
Aft.   
  
"Come on, let's go," Blurr said as he tossed the last meshcloth into the laundry bin and flicked the lights to ten percent. Cybertron was not so well off he could afford to waste energy.   
  
Ricochet made a show of stowing his datapad and rising from the booth, pulling his arms over his head in an exaggerated stretch. Armor creaked. Gaps showed gleaming cables beneath which Blurr did not at all let his gaze linger over.  
  
"Where to?"   
  
"Home." Blurr checked the front doors first before leading Ricochet to the back entrance and the security panel.   
  
Ricochet stayed on his heelstruts, uncomfortably close. He radiated heat like a furnace. "Thought ya had plans?"   
  
Blurr glared at him, not that it seemed to phase Ricochet one bit. "I'm not going to meet up with Tracks while you're hanging off my aft." Tracks had been disappointed, and Blurr just knew, as soon as Blurr hung up, Tracks had gotten on the phone with Mirage.   
  
"Ohhh. That kind of rendezvous, hm? Why didn't you say so?" Ricochet leaned in closer, all heat and promise, his field buzzing along Blurr's. "I can take care of that for ya, if ya want."   
  
"I'll let you know when I get that desperate," Blurr drawled.   
  
Ricochet laughed and leaned back out of his space, taking the buzzing warmth of his field with him. Blurr refused to mourn the loss, no matter how fast his spark cycled, or how much heat pooled lazy and hungry in his belly. He hated missing out on a night with Tracks.   
  
Jazz’s tab steadily grew more expensive.   
  
Blurr locked up, and they stepped out into nightcycle, the sky dark and pockmarked with stars. Last week, they'd been caught in the orbit of a weak star, and it had held onto them long enough to frag with everyone's idea of day and night cycle before Cybertron surged free and kept going.   
  
He didn't live far from New Maccadam’s. One day, he hoped to renovate an apartment over the bar, so he wouldn't even have to leave the building to go home. It was on the list, but there were a lot more construction projects ahead of his in the queue. He didn’t have enough free creds to hire a freelance crew either, so it on the waiting list for government-approved free construction it was.   
  
Ricochet whistled as they walked to the multi-storey complex of apartments where Blurr lived. "Figures you'd be livin' the high life," he said as he tilted his head back and looked up the length of it. "Lemme guess? Penthouse?"  
  
Blurr snorted. "Upper floors are reserved for fliers. So, no." He slanted Ricochet a look. "You do realize there's a difference between what I had before the war and what I can have now, right?"   
  
"Sucks, don't it?"   
  
Blurr chose not to answer that.   
  
He lived on the third floor, in a modest apartment with modest furnishings and modest space. He had all he needed to live here, and there was nothing of the ostentatious lifestyle he'd once had. Strangely, he didn’t miss it at all. He had what he needed.   
  
He didn't have a secondary berthroom or a secondary berth. The couch would be a tight squeeze, but if Ricochet insisted on sticking around, that was his problem, not Blurr's.   
  
"I'd tell you to make yourself at home, but I don't really want you here," Blurr said as the door closed behind them, and Blurr was acutely aware of how small his apartment actually was.  
  
Or maybe it was just that Ricochet seemed to fill so much of the space.   
  
"I'm hurt, Zippy. I thought you and my brother were such good friends."   
  
"You might be twins, but my feelings for Jazz don’t automatically transfer to you," Blurr said with a huff. He was agitated, and he hated that it showed.   
  
News of a serial murderer was not pleasant to receive, and having a bodyguard didn’t reassure him. Blurr was used to having targets on his back, but he’d thought he was done with that with the war behind them.   
  
He'd wanted to overload and recharge in the aftermath. Not stalk around his apartment with Ricochet on his heelstruts, managing to be both attractive and annoying all at once.   
  
"Shame," Ricochet said, and finally backed off. He walked the perimeter of Blurr's apartment, checking the windows, peering into doorways, acclimatizing himself to the layout, Blurr supposed. Maybe he was going to take this bodyguard duty seriously.   
  
He didn't wear his Decepticon badge anymore, Blurr noticed earlier. Not that many people did. Some still wore their badges with pride, some had been all too happy to scrub them off once the truce was declared and solidified and held.   
  
Somehow, that Ricochet had once been a Decepticon was not the most disconcerting thing about him.   
  
Blurr left him to it and stepped into the washrack to rinse away the day's dirt. He stood under the solvent spray for longer than was necessary, the heat of it suffusing his sore cables. His hand crept to his panel, palm scrubbing down over it, his array heating up beneath.   
  
His hand was not nearly a substitute for Tracks. Blurr knocked his forehead against the wall beneath the spray and rubbed harder, debating. He could take care of this now, for however partially satisfying it would be.   
  
He was, however, acutely aware of Ricochet in his apartment, on the other side of the door, poking his nose into whatever.   
  
Blurr was only as picky about his berthpartners as he needed to be. Attractiveness was necessary, fondness not so much. He preferred someone who wasn't looking for a commitment.   
  
He technically preferred mechs who weren't Decepticons.   
  
But he was tempted. As much as Ricochet ground his gears, Blurr was tempted. How much was he like Jazz, Blurr wondered, because down that road was a very good time.   
  
"Blurr?" Ricochet called through the door, following it with a rap of his knuckles, and Blurr startled out of his absent musings. "Alive in there or do I need to come in and rescue ya?"   
  
He jabbed the shut off switch, ending the stream. "I'm fine."   
  
No reply.   
  
Small favors.   
  
Blurr toweled off quickly, ignoring the lazy throb of arousal curling in his groin. Frustration set in, and he clenched his denta, jaw aching. He stepped out of the washrack and immediately impacted with Ricochet's chassis.   
  
"Why are you in the way?" Blurr demanded as he abruptly stepped back, out of immediate contact.   
  
Ricochet grinned, and the lazy arrogance of it should not have been so attractive. "I was worried," he said without sounding as though he was concerned at all.   
  
"I'm not helpless." Blurr pushed past Ricochet, shoulder-checking him. Ricochet didn’t move an inch. He was more massive than Blurr, and interestingly, Jazz.   
  
Blurr was familiar with twins. He’d befriended Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, as much as one could befriend the latter. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were a lot more similar in build than Jazz and Ricochet.   
  
"Needin' looking after don't make ya helpless." Ricochet followed at a leisurely pace. "Just means ya got someone who cares."   
  
"If I wanted your opinion, I would've asked for it," Blurr retorted with a roll of his optics.   
  
Ricochet loosed a rolling chuckle. "Primus, you're feisty. No wonder Jazz likes ya so much." He leaned a hip against the couch, crossing his arms over his chassis. "There's probably a better use for your mouth than talking though."   
  
Blurr's face heated. He whipped around and glared at Ricochet. "You wish," he snarled.   
  
Ricochet's visor glinted, like he was looking Blurr up and down. "I wouldn't say no if I found ya in my berth, just sayin'. You're pretty 'nough."   
  
"I don't frag 'Cons."   
  
"I ain't a Con anymore. Not that it matters."   
  
Blurr lifted a chin. "Yeah. You strike me as the type with conflicting loyalties."   
  
Ricochet cocked his head. The light behind his visor darkened. "That so?" he asked, and his tone went rough, like footsteps over gravel. "Ya know me so well, do ya?" He pushed off the couch, stalked closer, his field preceding him in a mighty wave of sizzling heat. "Got me all figured out?"   
  
"It wasn't exactly hard." Blurr unconsciously backed up, and his aft hit the wall, just next to his berthroom.   
  
"Yeah, yer no mystery either, Zippy," Ricochet said, and his glossa flicked over his lips, his steps measured and encroaching. "I've had you pegged since the moment we met."   
  
“Really.” It wasn’t a question.  
  
Ricochet grinned, but there was nothing amused about it. He caged Blurr against the wall, hands planted to either side of Blurr’s shoulders.   
  
“You were sparked,” he said. “You were born in a field, given to a fresh protoform, and slid right into life where you belonged. You’ve had luxury, you’ve had worship, and you’ve had everything your spark ever desired.”   
  
Blurr scowled. “You’re generalizing.”   
  
“I’m callin’ it like I see it. And I see privilege in you.” Ricochet tilted his head, the weight of his gaze cutting. “You’re damn lucky you survived the war.”   
  
Blurr folded his arms and darkened his glare, no matter how much the heat of Ricochet’s proximity enticed him. “It’s a little something called skill.”  
  
“Sure it is.” Ricochet purred at him, and Blurr refused to admit that it buzzed down his spinal strut and pooled in his tanks. “So go on. Tell me how much ya can’t stand the sight of me and my Decepticon ways.”   
  
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”   
  
“That’s ‘cause you ain’t so good at actually sayin’ them.” Ricochet chuckled, and this time, there was actual humor in it, rather than an offhand threat. “Yer prancin’ around it, but I know what ya want.”   
  
Ricochet dropped one hand, and Blurr tensed. He didn’t know Ricochet enough to guess what his next move would be, and it was only his friendship with Jazz which gave him a smidgen of trust toward Ricochet.   
  
Fingers touched his chin, knuckles under it, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to look into Ricochet’s visor. He was only slightly taller, but looming like this seemed to exaggerate the difference.   
  
Ricochet leaned in close enough for Blurr to taste his ex-vents, to anticipate the touch of their lips.   
  
“But I’m not gonna give it to ya until you tell me you want it,” he said, and his visor gleamed a deep, vibrant amber. “So. Your move, Speedy.”   
  
Blurr’s ventilations stuttered. “I don’t want anything from you.”   
  
“Oh, the lies ya tell.” Ricochet laughed and dropped his hand from Blurr’s chin, leaning back to put a respectable distance between them. “There’s a couch callin’ my name. Recharge well.” He fluttered his visor in a wink and turned away.   
  
Blurr panicked.   
  
“Fine!”   
  
Ricochet paused. “You talkin’ to me?” he asked, but the slag-eating grin was pure Jazz, and oh, how Blurr loathed him for it.   
  
“You heard me.” Blurr lifted his chin. “If I’m going to be stuck with you, I might as well get something out of it.”   
  
There was a moment before Ricochet laughed. Literally, threw his head back and laughed. He turned back to Blurr and grabbed his chin again, more forceful this time, and Blurr swallowed down an aroused groan.   
  
“Is this where ya tell me you’re doin’ me a favor?” Ricochet asked as he shoved his face against Blurr’s intake, denta grazing over the cables. “Or is it where you kick up a fuss by callin’ bad deeds about the evil, evil Con in your loft?”   
  
Blurr shivered, arousal surging anew in his groin, doubling back where the heat had dulled during their brief interchange. “You only think you know me.”   
  
“I know all I need ta know.” Ricochet’s denta sunk in, hard enough to dent, and Blurr jerked, knocking back against the wall, his sensornet exploding with charge.   
  
He moaned and grabbed Ricochet’s sides, hauling the mech in close enough to grind hard against him.   
  
“Frag me,” Blurr said. “For the love of Primus, make yourself useful and frag me.”   
  
Ricochet chuckled. “That’s all I needed to hear.”   
  
Blurr wanted to snarl at the arrogance in Ricochet’s tone, but the mech bit him again, and the sharp pain sent a dizzying wave of want through his frame. Blurr moaned, knees wobbling, and then hands were on his hips, lifting him up, pinning him against the wall. Ricochet thrust against him, grinding their panels together.   
  
“Open,” Ricochet demanded.   
  
Another lightning bolt of want zapped up Blurr’s spinal strut. His cover popped open before he gave it conscious thought, and he wrapped his legs around Ricochet’s waist, gripping Ricochet’s shoulders as his back scraped against the wall.   
  
“Good mech,” Ricochet purred and the hot, blunt pressure of a spike nudged at Blurr’s valve before Ricochet sank into him in one quick thrust.   
  
Blurr arched, a whine slipping from his lips, his valve rippling around the thick length. Sensors pinged an abrupt onslaught of sensation, and he scrabbled to keep his grip, vision filling with static as pleasure flashed through his sensornet.   
  
There was nothing gentle about it. Blurr didn’t want there to be anything gentle about it. He wanted this, hard and fast and furious, his back scraping against the wall, a hot spike piercing him over and over.   
  
Ricochet’s denta on his intake, his hot vents scorching Blurr’s cables, and his bites leaving a dull, aching pressure. It shouldn’t have aroused Blurr, but it ramped up his charge anyway, sending little bursts of static-fire through his frame.   
  
Ricochet growled, like a beast, and fragged him harder, sharp, abrupt thrusts that dragged along his nodes over and over again, until he bottomed out and ground against Blurr’s ceiling node. Blurr jerked, spasming between Ricochet and the wall, overload surging through his system in a crackle of webbed charge.   
  
Blurr moaned and rode Ricochet’s thrusts, extending his overload, vents pouring heat into the air as Ricochet snarled and bit down, pounding deep, until the hot splatter of his transfluid painted Blurr’s valve.   
  
“Frag, frag, frag,” Blurr heard himself chanting, as if from a distance, as his entire frame rattled, pleasure making him twitch and writhe in Ricochet’s grasp.   
  
Ricochet chuckled darkly. “Thought that’s what I was doin’.” Self-satisfaction flooded his tone as he dragged his mouth down and bit the top edge of Blurr’s chestplate. “Got any more in ya?”   
  
“As many as you think you can manage,” Blurr challenged while his sensory net tingled, and his valve fluttered around Ricochet’s spike, straining for more charge.   
  
“Good.” Ricochet purred.   
  
Blurr’s world turned upside down. Or something like it. Next thing he knew, he was tossed over Ricochet’s shoulder, lubricant and transfluid seeping out of his valve to paint his thighs. He bounced as Ricochet moved, carrying him with ease.   
  
“What’re you doing?” Blurr demanded, his processor spinning.   
  
“Left enough paint on yer walls, I think,” Ricochet said before Blurr’s world spun around him again, and Ricochet unceremoniously tossed him toward the berth.   
  
He bounced for a moment before Ricochet was on him, flipping him onto his front and nudging between his thighs, spikehead grinding against his rim. Denta seized the back of Blurr’s neck, and he moaned, pressing his forehead into the berth, aft tilting up invitingly.   
  
Ricochet slid back into him. Blurr fisted the berth covers, and as he was filled to the brim, his sensitized nodes tingled back toward overload.   
  
“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Blurr gasped out as he dug his knees into the berth and pushed back into the cradle of Ricochet’s hips, driving his spike deeper.   
  
Ricochet chuckled against the back of his neck. “Sure it doesn’t,” he said, and thrust harder.   
  
Blurr groaned, sparks dancing in his visual feed. Thank Primus he didn’t have to open tomorrow.   
  
It was going to be a long night.   
  


~

  
  
It was starting to become a habit.   
  
Jazz spread out his notes. It was easier, now that he knew Wreckers were the target. But he still didn’t have an answer.   
  
Was it a group of mechs or an individual? Was it an Autobot or a Decepticon? What was the motive? Who was next?   
  
He’d interviewed all the former Wreckers who would talk to him. No one had any fingers to point. Their enemies were either dead or not on planet. The few Decepticons Jazz might have suspected were squeaky clean with solid alibis and anyway, the means didn’t match their capabilities.   
  
Jazz was certain the perpetrator was a special ops agent like himself. That was the only way they could get the drop on a Wrecker.   
  
Unless it was another Wrecker. Someone they would have trusted. No, no. Jazz dismissed that line of thought immediately. Not all of these Wreckers served at the same time. Some of them hadn’t even known the others, save by reputation alone. Wreckers were a suspicious lot, like spies in that regard.   
  
Besides, Wreckers tended to be brute force, not finesse, and Pyro’s death had been clean and precise. Classic execution. That right there had pointed fingers at a Spec Ops agent.   
  
Jazz already knew it wasn’t one of his. He’d asked, and Prowl swore it wasn’t one of his either. He’d also gone on to swear he wasn’t the one behind the deaths.   
  
Jazz had intended to ask. Was it suspicious Prowl answered before he asked? No, not really. Prowl wasn’t stupid. He knew mechs considered him the mastermind for a lot of things. Besides, what motive would there be? Sure Prowl hadn’t gotten along with the Wreckers much, but they were useful, and Prowl never discarded anything useful.   
  
Jazz sighed and scrubbed his forehead. So far, he was doing a bang-up job of deciding who it wasn’t while his list of who it could be remained blank.   
  
Frag it.   
  
 _Click._    
  
“Not going so well?”   
  
Jazz looked up as Bluestreak slid into the table across from him, sliding a cube toward him. “How is it ya always show up when I need a miracle?”   
  
Bluestreak snorted. “It just seems that way.” He tilted his head, optics skimming over the information on the datapads. “That looks like a mess. And I know a little something about messes. Any leads?”   
  
“No.” Jazz grabbed the cube and sipped the mid-grade, wishing it were something stronger, but he needed his wits about him right now. “Whoever this is, they’re good.”   
  
“Better than you?”   
  
Jazz’s lips quirked into a sliding scale smile. “No one’s better’n me, Blue.” He half-flashed his visor in a wink.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled and folded his arms against the edge of the table, leaning forward. His sensory panels twitched behind him, and Jazz’s gaze was drawn to them again, admiring their edges, their shine, wondering how they’d taste on his glossa.   
  
Primus, he had it bad.   
  
“Maybe I can help again.” Bluestreak touched one datapad with a finger and dragged it closer, peering at the contents. It was a summary of the causes of death, Jazz realized. Bluestreak didn’t blink at the gory details. Then again, why would he? Masterful sharpshooter that he was.   
  
“I’ll take all the help I can get,” Jazz slid into a lazy recline against the back of the chair. “You’re not workin’ right?”   
  
“I’m taking over for Riptide here in a bit. I just saw you over here looking lost and agitated, so I thought a drink might help,” Bluestreak said, his tone absent as though he was giving the information serious thought. “Wow. This maniac is thorough. There’s anger in these deaths, Jazz. This isn’t business. This is personal.”   
  
Jazz nodded and sucked in a slow vent. “Shame.”   
  
“Yeah. It is. It’s peacetime, we’re supposed to be safe.”   
  
“Not what I meant.”   
  
Bluestreak cycled his optics and looked up. “I knew what you meant,” he said, and his tone was quiet. “It’s not a good idea. It wasn’t the first time, and it’s still not now.”   
  
Jazz hated that answer. It was a non-answer. It told him nothing. “Why?”   
  
Bluestreak sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “This is more than personal,” he said, tapping the datapad pointedly. “You asked Smokescreen about this? Because you need a psychological profile to narrow it down. I’m thinking this is a mech who felt betrayed. Abandoned maybe. This is an anger that’s been building for a long, long time.”   
  
Jazz leaned forward, put his hand on the datapad, blocking the information. “Why?” he repeated.   
  
“You don’t want to hear the answer.”   
  
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”   
  
Bluestreak sighed and lifted his gaze to Jazz again. “If it didn’t mean anything, I would have said yes already. I’m not immune to flirting, Jazz, and I’m not blind either. I’ve noticed.”   
  
Jazz shifted in the seat, feeling stripped open beneath Bluestreak’s optics. “And?”   
  
“And I don’t think I’m what you want.” Bluestreak let go of the datapad and leaned back, taking the tasty hints of his field with him. “I don’t think you even know what you want, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want what I have. Or even if you did want it, you’re not ready for it. I don’t play, Jazz. Not like you do. If I take something, I keep it.”   
  
Jazz worked his intake, his ventilations hitching, and he fought like the Pit to force the heat down into the depths of his belly where it belonged, rather than in his field and throughout his frame. “What if I want to be kept?”   
  
“Think about whether or not you mean that, and what you’re offering.” Bluestreak stood, sliding out of the booth, and though his words were serious, his smile was gentle. “I mean it, Jazz. Think about it. Don’t just assume you’ve got it figured out and come to me because this is something new and exciting you want to try.”   
  
Jazz licked his lips, his ventilations shallow. “What do ya want to do to me, Blue?”   
  
The edge of a smile turned wicked. “I have a list.” Bluestreak rapped his knuckles on the counter. “See you later, Jazz. Good luck with the investigation.”   
  
He left, and Jazz watched him go with a hunger gnawing deep in the pit of his tanks, a hunger the midgrade on the table in front of him wouldn’t sate.   
  
Though Bluestreak had a point, and Jazz knew he did. He needed to see Smokescreen for a psychological profile, because if he could find some reason in the madness, then maybe Jazz could narrow down his suspect pool enough to make an actionable actual list.   
  
So much to do, so little time.   
  
Jazz gathered up his datapads, downed the drink Bluestreak had given him in one fell swoop, and swept out of the bar. But not before he looked over his shoulder to see Bluestreak watching him go with an equally hungry look.   
  
Jazz shivered.   
  
He had some serious thinking to do.   
  


**


	4. Chapter 4

They technically didn’t share a berth. Ricochet was supposed to recharge on the couch and the berth was for Blurr alone.   
  
Those were the agreed upon terms, in theory.   
  
In practice, Blurr on-lined every morning with a horny Decepticon wrapped around him, mouthing at the back of his neck and caressing his panels.   
  
It wasn’t a terrible way to online. It’s just that in the week since Ricochet had showed up to safeguard him, he hadn’t recharged once on the couch. Of course, if Blurr was better at resisting temptation, maybe he could manage to exile Ricochet to the couch.   
  
Maybe.   
  
A hot mouth sucked on the back of Blurr’s neck as a knee nudged between his thighs from behind, making room for a spike to rub against his aft. Blurr sighed and rocked back into the cradle of Ricochet’s hips.   
  
“If you’re going to poke me with a spike, why don’t you put it to use?”  
  
Ricochet chuckled darkly and shivers radiated through Blurr’s sensornet. “That’s what I like about you, Zippy. You’re always good to go.”  
  
Fingers slid over Blurr’s hips, finding the hot nub of his anterior node and giving it a rub. The dull bloom of heat overrode Blurr’s annoyance with the nickname. He melted backward, tilting his hips to encourage Ricochet to frag him.   
  
“Just shut up and make yourself useful,” Blurr snapped as Ricochet’s fingers pinched gently at his nub, sending a shock of pleasure through Blurr’s array. He went liquid with need, the heat of it pooling in his belly. His valve clenched, lubricant beading at the rim.   
  
“Gladly,” Ricochet purred, and rolled over on top of Blurr, pinning him to the berth, his weight blanketing Blurr entirely.   
  
Blurr got his knees beneath him just in time for Ricochet to plunge into him, bottoming out in one long, deep thrust, the head of his spike perfectly angled to grind against Blurr’s ceiling node. He jerked, loosing a small moan, valve quivering in response to the abrupt pleasure.   
  
“You feel amazing,” Ricochet groaned as he licked and bit at the back of Blurr’s neck, like one might a piece of hard energon candy. He rocked his hips, less thrusts then they were deep, grinding pushes. “I could do this all day.”   
  
Blurr fisted the berthcovers, pressing his forehead into the plush surface. “Well, you can’t. I have to open.”   
  
Ricochet chuckled, the vibrations of it rattling in Blurr’s audials and sending a surge of charge down his backstrut. “Some other time then.” He pinched Blurr’s anterior node between thumb and forefinger, immediately soothing the sharp pain with a gentle rub.   
  
Blurr moaned, ex-venting hot and wet against the berthcovers. His optics flickered as he dug his knees into the berth, pushing back against the pressure of Ricochet’s frame. His valve clenched and rippled, feeding charge into Ricochet’s spike, his rim swollen and his nodes sparking with building charge.   
  
“Ya run so damn hot, I love it,” Ricochet growled as he thrust harder and faster, each forward push ending with a grind against Blurr’s ceiling node.   
  
Blurr twisted his fingers in the berthcovers and pushed back, tilting to take Ricochet as deep as possible. The weight and heat of the former Con was unexpectedly arousing, and the slippery touch of Ricochet’s fingers on his nub made him jerk and clench.   
  
Blurr groaned, vents coming in sharp gasps. He was so close already, charge leaping out from under his armor and lighting up the room with bursts of blue. Ricochet gripped his hip, fingers digging into a seam, the sharp tips pricking at Blurr’s cables.   
  
“More,” Blurr demanded, though it came out more of a hiss, his head tipping back, putting his neck and shoulder into range of Ricochet’s mouth.   
  
Denta closed around his bared components, pressure building against the sensitive components, a dull pain that burst into sharp relief. Blurr shuddered as it turned molten. He knew it was going to leave a mark, a dent, knew he’d probably seep a little energon.   
  
Frag if that didn’t turn him on more.   
  
He clawed at the berth, shoving back against Ricochet, and another sharp jab against his ceiling node sent Blurr sailing into overload, his valve convulsing around the thick. Ricochet shuddered, the rattle of his armor grinding against Blurr’s, and more static spilled out of his frame, joining the dancing curls of Blurr’s. Transfluid splashed over Blurr’s sensitive nodes in a hot wave, and he shivered, little surges of pleasure extending his overload.   
  
“Mmm.” Ricochet licked the bite mark he’d left in the back of Blurr’s neck. “Best wake up call, if you ask me.”   
  
Blurr wriggled beneath his weight, no longer appealing now that he was post-overload and overheating. “You’re blocking my vents,” he grumbled.   
  
Ricochet laughed and rolled off him, sprawling across the other half of the berth with a self-satisfied burst of his field. “Ya have no respect for a good post-face snuggle.”   
  
Blurr shifted onto his side to get comfortable, his vents fluttering open and greedily sucking in great draughts of air. He was a Racer, damn it. He needed to have good airflow when he was exerting.   
  
“That’s because a cuddle for you is an excuse for another round. And I still have to shower before I go into work.” A satisfactory ache settled into Blurr’s valve. If he didn’t have to open, he’d roll over and slide back into recharge.   
  
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so effectively sated. It was nice having a readily available partner at his beck and call.   
  
“Whatever you say, Zippy.”   
  
Blurr sighed and let the nickname slide. Again. There had to be something about Ricochet that made him tolerable the more Blurr was exposed to him.   
  
It had only been a week. Really, he ought to protest more.   
  
“We could shower together. Save resources,” Ricochet suggested, and Blurr didn’t have to look to know he was leering.   
  
The berth dipped. Ricochet slid back against Blurr from behind, his fingers flirting over Blurr’s exposed array. “What do you say?”   
  
Blurr really needed to learn how to say no. Instead, he parted his thighs and canted his hips against Ricochet’s fingers.   
  
“Just this once.”   
  


~

  
  
Bluestreak was many things, but able to process thousands of bytes of data in a cycle of his optics was not of them. He was not Prowl. He was slower, more methodical, having to absorb the information at a gradual pace.   
  
It was a weakness, one that prevented his admission to the Enforcer Academy, but served him well when it came to solving puzzles. He had more time to ruminate on clues and context, often drawing conclusions where no one else could.   
  
“Look at this one as well,” Prowl said as he handed over a datapad.   
  
Bluestreak accepted it and plugged into the port, downloading the contents and adding it to the processing program which was already absorbing the information he’d “borrowed” from Jazz’s datapads. Secretly, mind, as Jazz had no idea Bluestreak had taken it. He wasn’t supposed to know Bluestreak was assisting on this case.   
  
No one was supposed to know.   
  
“Why don’t you just officially assign me the case?” Bluestreak asked as he rapped his fingers, half his processor focused on perusing the new data, the other half focused on Prowl as Prowl more or less ignored him.   
  
He swore that stack of paperwork on Prowl’s desk was only getting larger, rather than smaller, no matter how much Prowl worked. Ultra Magnus helped, but Rodimus was notorious for avoiding his datawork as long as possible. He was more of a hands-on Prime.   
  
And word on the street was that he’s been  _very_  hands-on with the Decepticon Winglord.   
  
“You retired,” Prowl said.   
  
Bluestreak wouldn’t count it as a retirement. He’d retired from the Autobot army, yes, but civilian detective work was a whole different story. Prowl should have known that.   
  
“And here I am.”   
  
“Here you are,” Prowl agreed without lifting his glance or stilling his stylus.   
  
Bluestreak rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair again. “Jazz could use the help,” he pointed out, thinking fondly of the smaller mech who’d looked both strained and exhausted as of late. Twitchy, too, Bluestreak would say.   
  
He needed a firm hand. Bluestreak was ready to offer it, as soon as Jazz knew enough to ask for it.   
  
“Exactly,” Prowl said.   
  
“I meant directly,” Bluestreak said. He reached out with a foot, toeing one of the desk’s table legs.   
  
Prowl’s left sensory panel twitched, which meant he was avoiding confrontation as best he could. “No.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
Prowl’s stylus finally stilled. He looked up, creakingly slow. “You know why not.”   
  
Bluestreak sighed and resisted the urge to roll his optics. “What happens between two consenting adults--”  
  
“You distract him.”   
  
“Oh, so now it’s my fault.”   
  
“I’m removing a possible temptation. Nothing more, nothing less.” Prowl’s tone was as clipped as the brief flick of his sensory panels, left then right. “I need this case solved, Bluestreak. There was a time Jazz would have brought me a perpetrator’s head within a few cycles.”   
  
Bluestreak did roll his optics this time. “That was when you didn’t have rules and oversight.”   
  
“Precisely my point.” Prowl cycled a ventilation and pressed the bridge of his nose, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. “I have to do this within certain boundaries, and that’s stifling me, it’s stifling Jazz, so I can’t allow anything else to distract him.”   
  
“Does he know you have such a low opinion of him?”   
  
Both sensory panels twitched now, in synonymous succession, as Prowl’s field leaked a twinge of agitation. “Matters of the spark are never logical. Even I know that.”   
  
Bluestreak swallowed what he wanted to say because it was cruel, and Prowl did not deserve such cruelty. Even if he was being an aft. It was just Prowl’s nature.   
  
He changed the subject instead. “Whoever is doing this is escalating, you know,” he said, and tapped the datapad pointedly. “The first murder was a year ago. There’s now been two in the past month.”   
  
“I know.” Prowl lowered his hand and picked up his stylus again, getting back to work. “Which is why it is imperative we find them and soon. I worry about what happens when they run out of Wreckers.”   
  
“It won’t come to that.” Bluestreak disengaged from Prowl’s datapad and set it on the desk as he stood. “I’m going to figure this out. Jazz is, too.”   
  
“I should hope so.” Prowl’s tone was even, but there was gratitude in the flickers of his field. Pride, too. “Go on. I don’t want you to be late for your shift with Blurr.”   
  
Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Thanks, sire. Happy to be of service.” He shot off a playful salute and backed toward the door.   
  
“I wouldn’t have a brat like you for a sparkling,” Prowl retorted, but his sensory panels betrayed him, flicking twice at the distal tips.   
  
Bluestreak snorted. “You’d have been lucky to have me.” He poked the panel to open the door. “I’ll let you know what I come up with later.”   
  
“I trust you will.”   
  


~

  
  
Ricochet didn't know what was better, having a nice, reliable fragging partner in the form of one hot-aft former Racer, or the satisfaction that came from how huffy Blurr became in the aftermath, like he didn't want to admit how much he enjoyed getting fragged senseless on a daily basis. Both were equally satisfying.   
  
He'd have to thank Jazz for asking for his favor. Who knew it would be such a good time?   
  
"Do you have to stand so close to me?" Blurr snapped as he keyed in his access code to the security system and waited for it to acknowledge him.   
  
"I'm yer bodyguard. It's my job to stay close," Ricochet said, and crowded even more against Blurr's back, ex-venting hot and wet against the Racer's nape, where his bite from earlier stood out in stark relief.   
  
Everyone would know he'd been claimed. Ricochet grinned.   
  
"Not that close!" Blurr jabbed an elbow backward, and Ricochet barely twisted out of the way in time.   
  
Ricochet chuckled and gave him some venting space once again, though his fingers itched to trace all those lovely curves and streamlined angles. A long time past, Ricochet wouldn't have hoped of getting his hands on one of the Circuit's most famous Racers. And now, he'd been buried in said Racer's intake just this morning, their “quick” shower almost making Blurr late.   
  
Oh, things had changed.   
  
The panel beeped, and the door slid open, admitting them to the dim back corridor of New Maccadam’s. Blurr hustled around, flicking on lights, powering up the dispersal systems, checking to make sure everything had been restocked. Ricochet gave him his space -- he wasn't much fun to taunt when he was in business mode. Besides, Ricochet was a jerk, but not so much that he'd frag with a mech's honest living.   
  
He'd tease from afar.   
  
He took up perch at the counter and rapped his knuckles on the shiny surface. "Yo, bartender, is this the kind of slag service I can expect 'round here?"  
  
"You know where everything is by now. Serve yourself," Blurr called from the narrow storage space just behind the back wall of the bar, where he kept his more expensive backstock.   
  
Ricochet leaned over the counter, snagging a bottle of the fizzy Tarnian Sunrise. "Ya might regret givin' me that much free reign."   
  
"I regret a lot of things."   
  
Ricochet chuckled.   
  
Blurr emerged from the back with a few bottles tucked under his arm. He slid them under the counter where Ricochet sat, including another bottle of the Tarnian Sunrise. When he noticed what Ricochet had grabbed, he scrunched his nose in a way that should not have been so cute.   
  
"How can you drink that slag?"  
  
Ricochet twisted off the cap. "Yer the one who stock's it."   
  
"Yeah. For customers. Though I don't see why anyone drinks it."   
  
"I like it."   
  
"It's sweet."   
  
Ricochet smirked, baring his denta. "That's why I like it."   
  
Blurr snorted. "You have terrible taste." He turned around and flicked the switches to activate the sound system and the outside lights, announcing them open for business, before he pushed through the swinging door and headed toward the front.   
  
Ricochet followed Blurr with his optics, turning to half-lean against the counter. "What's that say about you, then, since I frag you on the daily?"   
  
"Means I have terrible taste, too," Blurr threw over his shoulder as he flicked the locks and twisted the sign on the door around.   
  
Ricochet laughed and took a swig of the sweet, bubbly engex. It was deceptively light, but it packed a fierce punch. "To each his own," he said as he smacked his lips and wiped his hand across the back of his mouth. "Though that does make me curious."   
  
Blurr started pulling chairs and stools off tables, scooting them back underneath. "About what?"   
  
"You." Ricochet swiveled completely around, bracing his elbows on the counter and his back against it as he watched Blurr work. "How come ya haven't been snapped up yet?"   
  
Blurr paused and gave him a level look. "Because I don't want to be," he said, but there was something in his tone that suggested it wasn't the entire truth. "I have playmates. That's enough. I'm too busy for anything else."   
  
"Right." Ricochet drawled and took a long sip of the engex, savoring the sweet bubble of it on his glossa. "Carefree and unattached. That's all ya want from life."   
  
"What about you?" Blurr got back to work as the sound system finally kicked in, playing some medium energy beat from Earth. "Alone by choice or because no one else will have you?"   
  
Ricochet pointed at him. "I'm gonna let that insult slide."   
  
Blurr smirked.   
  
"As fer me, I got all I need already." He lifted his hands in a pseudo-shrug. "I got my brother, and he'll always be mine no matter what he and Blue end up doing, and that's enough. Besides, seems I'm somethin' of an acquired taste."   
  
"I can't imagine why."   
  
"Aft."   
  
Blurr laughed, and for a moment, the quiet between them was companionable rather than tense and waiting to be snap. It was kind of nice, Ricochet ruminated, to banter with someone who could give as good as he took. Blurr was an aft as much as Ricochet was, though a different flavor.   
  
Like called to lie, he supposed. You could forgive a lot when it came attached to such a fine piece of fraggable aft.   
  
Blurr finished the table and came back behind the corner. He pulled out a few jars of metal chunks and a grinder to grate fresh shavings for the more complicated drinks. Ricochet turned back toward him.   
  
"So does that mean it's my turn to ask a question?" Blurr asked.   
  
"You just did."   
  
"You know what I mean."   
  
Ricochet rolled his shoulders. "Sure. Why not? It feels like a good hour for sharin'."   
  
Blurr dumped a few misshapen cubes of cobalt into the grinder and started to turn the crank. "Why'd you take this job? Protecting someone like me, I mean. I can't imagine you have any love for, uh--"  
  
"An Autobot sparked and worshiped into wealth?" Ricochet finished for him. He leaned against the counter, teasing the mouth of the Tarnian bottle against his lips. "Yeah, if this was pre-war, I'd have told Jazz to go frag himself."   
  
"But it's different now?"   
  
"The whole planet's different now." Ricochet's gaze wandered, to the colorful bottles on display behind Blurr. "Jazz asked, which meant you meant somethin' to him, and that was enough for me." He paused and curved his lips. "That and the blowjob might have had something to do with it."   
  
Blurr snorted and rolled his optics. "Why am I not surprised?"   
  
"What about you?"   
  
"Me?"   
  
Ricochet jerked his head in a nod. "You were pretty against havin' backup. What changed yer mind?"   
  
"I'm still against it." Blurr dumped the ground cobalt back into the jar, wiped out the grinder, and refilled it with coarse magnesium. "But I'm not an idiot. If someone out there is going to try and kill me, a little back up can't hurt." He paused and smirked, his optics glinting with humor. "That and the readily available berth partner is a decent bonus."   
  
Ricochet sat back a little, toying with the bottle of engex. "So you do like me."  
  
"Like is a strong word."   
  
"Not much distance between lust and like. Watch. You'll fall 'n love with me soon enough."   
  
Blurr laughed, and it was a genuine laugh, not one of his sarcastic ones. It was a cute laugh, where his optics sparkled and his vents fluttered. "I'm sure."   
  
Ricochet rubbed the engex between his palms, watching the fancy label sparkle in the overhead lights. "All right. My turn." He tilted his head, letting his field lightly probe at Blurr's. "Why the Autobots?"   
  
"Seriously?"   
  
"It's a pertinent question."   
  
"Kind of a serious one."   
  
"You don't wanna answer?"   
  
Blurr twisted his jaw and dumped the magnesium shavings into a jar. He rinsed out the grinder and set it aside, taking out a meshcloth to wipe up where he had been working. "I didn't want to pick either."   
  
"That wasn't an option for long."   
  
"Tell me about it." Blurr stared at the counter, his forehead furrowing, a moment of genuine seriousness flicking into his tone. "I was almost a Decepticon. They tried to recruit me. If they hadn't sent Starscream, they might have succeeded."   
  
"Aww. Star's not so bad."   
  
Blurr lifted his orbital ridges. "You sound like you know from personal experience."   
  
Ricochet took another long, savoring sip of the Tarnian Sunrise. He smacked his lips. "I'm a very desirable mech, Blurr. Now you were saying?"   
  
Blurr gave him a long, even look. Like he was trying to decide if Ricochet was lying or not. He'd never know. "Starscream tried to recruit me. I said no. Something about it didn't sit right with me." He paused and a bit of a wry grin curved his lips. "I had the feeling the Decepticons wouldn't much like a mech like me anyway."   
  
"Well, you're not wrong."   
  
Blurr snorted and idly scrubbed at an already clean counter. "Look, my life was good before the war. If you're thinking I'm going to give you some deep, meaningful reason behind which side I chose, you're not going to find it. I just picked the side that I thought would help me survive."   
  
"Survival," Ricochet echoed, his tone flat. "So that's what you're goin' with."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"Then how does that jive with joining the Wreckers? Don't they have somethin' like a ten percent survival rate?"   
  
Blurr chuckled, and the light in his optics dimmed a little. "I might have wanted to prove how good I was.   
  
Ricochet leaned back a little, bracing his foot on the bar running along the underside of the counter. "I don't buy that."   
  
"I'm not selling it. That's the way it is."   
  
"I think there's more to it."   
  
Blurr turned and tossed the meshcloth into the laundry. He braced his arms on the edge of the counter. "What about you? What story are you going to sell me?"   
  
"The truth." Ricochet leaned back forward, so they were close enough he could smell Blurr's expensive wax and polish. "I hated authority. I hated the Prime. I especially hated my slagger of a sire. I wanted nothing to do with anything that carried the same symbol as him. I wanted to see the entire institution burn to the ground, and the Decepticons offered that in spades."   
  
Blurr sucked his lower lip into his mouth before releasing it. "That's fair," he said. "It didn't bother you Jazz chose otherwise?"   
  
"He always was Daddy's favorite."   
  
It had bothered him. It bothered him immensely. Ricochet had done his best to keep his twin alive during the war. Would've been easier if Jazz hadn't insisted on sneaking into the most dangerous Decepticon bases and finding himself behind enemy lines, but then, that was Jazz. He wasn't living if he wasn't risking his spark in some way.   
  
It was something Ricochet couldn't fix. He'd never wear the Autobot brand, and Jazz didn't want to serve under Megatron.   
  
It was a relief for both of them when neither side truly won.   
  
"Did you ever have to face him on the battlefield?"   
  
Ricochet paused, thinking of a moment, one of a few in stark relief through the centuries of war. When he'd been charged with sneaking into a base and assassinating the base commander. It had been a key position, one that was blocking up their supply routes, and his unit had been assigned the destruction of the base.   
  
He'd climbed out of a disposal port and come face to face with his twin, and the blaster Jazz had pointed in the middle of his visor.   
  
"Don't make me do it," Jazz had said.   
  
"Yer not gonna," Ricochet had retorted. It would only take a fraction of a second for him to draw his own blaster and fire. He already knew he wouldn't.   
  
He was less sure about Jazz. For all that Ricochet was determined to be the rough one, Jazz was far, far more ruthless.   
  
"Once," Ricochet said, blinking back into the present. He gave Blurr a wry grin. "Turns out he loves me just a smidge more than he loves the Autobots."   
  
"I'll bet he does," Blurr said, his tone impossible to read. He shifted, like he planned to say something else, but the front doors opened just then, admitting a trio of construction mechs, their feet tracking in mess while their loud voices filled the otherwise quiet bar.   
  
"Guess we'll have to continue this later," Blurr said, and shifted away from Ricochet, flashing a welcoming smile on his face. "Welcome to New Maccadam’s, gentlemechs. What can I get for you?"   
  
Ricochet grinned and lifted the Tarnian Sunrise back to his lips, the bubbly sweetness spilling over his glossa.   
  
A little bit of fragging, a little bit of conversation, and a little bit of engex.   
  
He couldn't imagine a better morning.   
  


***


	5. Chapter 5

Nine days.   
  
Hardly a blip in the lifespan of a Cybertronian, but oh, it was nine days Ricochet was never going to forget. He’d forgotten how much fun semi-hate sex was. And no one had ever told him that Racers could go and go and go.   
  
Blurr was ever so much fun.   
  
Not that he didn’t take his job seriously, because he did. Once Blurr was a puddle of sated blue metal in his berth, Ricochet slipped out and patrolled. He checked the windows and doors. He fiddled with the security system to make it more secure -- honestly, Blurr was lucky no thief had broken in on him already, his security was sparkling-play.   
  
Ricochet had thought this was a pity gig. That Jazz knew he was out of sorts without any real work to be had, so he’d offered this task out of a sense of brotherly fondness. Ricochet didn’t think there was any real threat.   
  
Then this morning, another Wrecker turned up dead. Executed actually, a triple-tap to Rossum’s Trinity to make sure there was no saving him. Nasty business, assassinations were. Ricochet was glad to be done with them. He much preferred the face to face destruction of his foes.   
  
After that, Blurr went to work this morning, and for the first time, didn’t complain about Ricochet following him. He supposed the seriousness of the situation finally got through to the bartender.   
  
The dead Wrecker had refused any type of guard. Perhaps he’d been rethinking his refusal as he looked death in the face.   
  
Ricochet snorted. People could be so stubborn over the most stupid things.   
  
He took position at the bar this time, tucked in a corner by the wall, rather than in a booth. Those, Blurr had told him, were reserved for paying, return customers. Not useless layabouts who liked to ogle the bartender’s aft.   
  
That suited Ricochet just fine. He had a better view from here, and if Blurr didn’t snap to it fast enough, he could reach over the bar and grab whatever engex was within reach.   
  
Win, win.   
  
It was a busy night. Blurr ran around so much Ricochet didn’t have time to flirt with him, grope him, or catch much of an ogle. He had to entertain himself with engex, his gamepad, and occasionally catching conversation with Bluestreak.   
  
He could see why Jazz carried such a torch for the mech honestly. There was something disarmingly charming about Bluestreak, though it took one to know one, and Ricochet could see the darkness behind his smile.   
  
It helped that he had a nice aft, and Ricochet could make good use of those sensory panels. Too bad they would never be compatible in the berth.   
  
“Are ya oglin’ the bartender?”   
  
Ricochet grinned as the stool beside him rattled, and his brother climbed up into it, his field a barely contained chaotic frenzy behind his placid smile.   
  
“Course I am. That’s what they’re here for, right?” Ricochet half-leaned against the counter, scanning his twin from top to bottom.   
  
Primus, this case was running him ragged, wasn’t it? He didn’t know the last time he’d felt this much of a storm in Jazz’s field. His armor was taut to his frame, and the light in his visor was pale. Must’ve struck out with Bluestreak again, on top of it.   
  
“Ya look terrible,” Ricochet said.   
  
Jazz snorted and lead his head on the counter, though turned to face Ricochet. “That obvious?”   
  
“Only ta me, probably. I know ya like I know my own spark.” He nudged his engex toward Jazz. “Want some? It’s free.”   
  
“I don’t drink that cheap slag. I got better taste than that.” Jazz sighed a ventilation. “How’re you and Blurr gettin’ on, by the way?”   
  
Ricochet grinned and took a long drag of his engex. “He’s a good frag.”   
  
“Figures.” Jazz’s lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Better’n me?”   
  
“No one’s better’n you, bro.” Ricochet sucked on the edge of the cube and hooked his foot around a rung on Jazz’s stool, tugging him within reach. “He’s not the reason ya came here though.”   
  
Jazz’s visor flickered. “Ugh. I hate how ya know me so well.” He pushed himself upright, swiveling in the chair to face Ricochet, their knees knocking together. “I need you.”   
  
“What about Blurr?”   
  
“Blue’s here. He’ll be fine.”   
  
Ricochet fiddled with his cube before he tipped it back, draining it. He set it upside-down on the counter. “Where?”   
  
Jazz visibly perked, and something like relief sank into his field, putting a ripple in already turbulent waters. “Storage room. Blurr’s done his restocking for the week. Shouldn’t be anything anyone needs in it right now.”   
  
“Not that ya care if ya get an audience,” Ricochet said as he slid from the stool, resting both of his hands on Jazz’s thighs, extending his talons only to sink them into Jazz’s armor. The screech of claw on plating was buried in the ambient noise of the bar. “Right?”   
  
Jazz’s visor turned liquid with lust. “Yeah.” He licked his lips, thighs squirming open under the weight of Ricochet’s hands. “Though Blurr might be a little angry if we do it here.”  
  
Ricochet leaned in, nuzzling into his brother’s throat, where the faintest imprints of his bites from earlier this week lingered. “Is it Blurr yer worried ‘bout, or Bluestreak?” He slid upward, until his thumbs found Jazz’s valve cover, and he pressed firmly against it, in a slow circle.   
  
Jazz sucked in a vent. A low whine built in his intake. “Don’t,” he murmured, and Ricochet knew he wasn’t talking about the touching.   
  
“You’re such a soft spark.” Ricochet sucked a cable between his denta and bit down, making Jazz jerk against him. “Thinkin’ me not talkin’ about it means it don’t exist. I got your number, bro. You’re gonna have to face it sooner or later.”   
  
Hips rocked against his fingers in minute motions, making the stool creak. Jazz’s vents were audibly labored, and his field clung to Ricochet’s with tacky, desperate want.   
  
“He said no.”   
  
Ricochet lifted his head and grabbed Jazz’s chin, forcing their visors to meet as he pressed his forehead to Jazz’s. “That’s not what he said.”   
  
“Not now,” Jazz said, but his visor fluttered, and his vents grew even more rapid.   
  
“This isn’t over.” He flicked Jazz’s panel with his finger, making his brother startle. “Now show me the storage room.”   
  
Jazz’s engine revved.   
  
They slipped off the stools -- and a cursory glance found more than a few faces turned their way, they’d earned some attention. Ricochet bore his denta at them, and said faces quickly returned to their conversations.   
  
 _Mine._    
  
Ricochet let Jazz play, gave him up from time to time, but when it came down to it, Jazz was his first and always.   
  
The storage room was small and cramped, with crates and boxes stacked together, all neatly labeled. There was a narrow walkway in the middle, and a single light flickered above them. The door clicked shut behind them -- opened by a code Jazz either owned or hacked.   
  
Ricochet looked around, whistling. “Wow. Someone’s a little compulsive, aren’t they?”   
  
“Weekdays are borin’.”  
  
Ricochet snorted and grabbed what he figured was the biggest crate and hauled it into the center. He sat down on it and looked up at his twin, whose visor had turned bright and needy. He crooked a finger.   
  
“Come.”  
  
It only took a step or two for him to get into reach, and Ricochet struck, grabbing the underside of his bumper and hauling him in closer. Jazz yelped and tumbled down against him, nearly knocking down another crate as he flailed.   
  
“So ungraceful,” Ricochet mocked.   
  
“Ya didn’t give me any warning!”   
  
“I don’t have to.” Ricochet pulled him down into a biting kiss, hard enough to leave his lower lip bruised.   
  
Jazz moaned against his mouth, his field rising and crashing against Ricochet’s with a desperation he didn’t often show. He really needed this.   
  
Ricochet grinned and spun his brother around, tugging Jazz into his lap, but legs splayed wide over his thighs. They were currently facing the door, which meant if anyone opened it, they’d get an opticful.   
  
Perfect.   
  
“Open,” Ricochet demanded as he snaked an arm around his brother’s waist, his palm cupping the entirety of Jazz’s array. He spread his knees, forcing Jazz’s legs even wider, thanking Primus and Unicron his brother was so flexible.   
  
Jazz’s vents wheezed. He tipped back against Ricochet’s chassis, and his panel sprung open, lubricant seeping out of his valve. Ricochet immediately plunged two fingers inside, pushing deep.   
  
“Good,” he purred. “But not the one I wanted.” He curved his other hand around, wrapping his fingers around Jazz’s intake. “Open up.”   
  
A low whine rose in Jazz’s intake, his field molten. He went liquid in Ricochet’s arms, complete submission, and his aft panel snicked aside in offering.   
  
“Good boy,” Ricochet murmured and bit at the side of Jazz’s intake as he took his lubricant coated fingers and plunged them into Jazz’s aft, the smaller port quivering in response.   
  
Jazz moaned and rocked forward onto his fingers, trying to urge them deeper. His spike panel popped, spike extending, beading lubricant at the tip. His field fizzled with static heat, crackling over Ricochet’s.   
  
His spike throbbed. Ricochet let it free, rubbing the head of it against Jazz’s aft. He gripped his brother’s hips with both hands and rocked upward, grinding his spike over Jazz’s aft.   
  
“You don’t overload until I let you,” Ricochet growled as Jazz grabbed his arms to help his balance. “Understand?”   
  
Jazz’s head lay on his shoulder, vents bursting with damp heat. “Yes, sir,” he panted, and Primus, that was a beautiful sound.   
  
Ricochet grinned and pulled Jazz into position, the blunt head of his spike nudging at Jazz’s aft. He waited, grinding against it, until Jazz made a desperate noise in his intake.   
  
“I hope that door locked,” Ricochet purred into his brother’s audial. He pulled Jazz down, sinking slowly into him, as Jazz keened and stilled atop him. “What if they run outta somethin’, huh? They’re gonna come in here, and they’re gonna see you with a spike up yer aft.”   
  
Jazz’s field flooded the room with a flashfire of lust. He writhed on top of Ricochet and snapped his hips back, taking Ricochet to the hilt. More lubricant trickled out of his bare valve, soaking his aft.   
  
“You’d like that, I bet.” Ricochet let go of his hips and palmed Jazz’s visible array with one hand, sliding the other back around his throat. “What if I let them use this? They won’t be able to help themselves, such a tasty valve you have.”   
  
He slid his longest finger past Jazz’s rim, curving it just right to rub hard against the cluster of nodes just inside. Jazz made an incoherent noise, closer to a whimper.   
  
“You’d let them, I know ya would,” Ricochet purred.   
  
Jazz said something like “hngh” and charge crackled over his armor. His spike bobbed, transfluid dripping off the tip to hit the floor beneath them.   
  
“Touch yourself,” Ricochet ordered, and tightened his grip on Jazz’s intake, not enough to cut off his oral vents, but enough to serve as a warning. “But don’t overload.”   
  
Shaking fingers rose and wrapped around his spike. Jazz gave himself a squeeze, jerking up into his hand with an audible gasp. His aft squeezed around Ricochet’s spike.   
  
Ricochet groaned and flexed his fingers around Jazz’s intake, feeling the bob of his swallow. Jazz’s fans whined from the strain, but his field surged with stronger arousal, drowning out all other sensation. Ricochet grinned against the back of Jazz’s neck, grazing his denta over it.   
  
He wasn’t going to last long, lucky for Jazz. His brother’s frame was too perfect, too welcoming, and he gave himself so willingly, it was intoxicating.   
  
He braced his feet on the ground and started to thrust, driving deep, plunging into Jazz with faster and faster strokes. His engine revved, loud in the small confines of the closet, and Jazz started to keen, wordless, gasping babbles though what little air he could grab around Ricochet’s grip.   
  
Ricochet knew what Jazz wanted, better than Jazz himself. Just like he knew what Jazz wanted from Bluestreak, and whether or not Bluestreak could offer it back.   
  
He could.   
  
That wasn’t the point. Jazz had to figure it out for himself or it would never work. Ricochet didn’t mind loaning out his twin to someone who would treat him right, like Bluestreak. Until then, Jazz was  _his_ , and Ricochet would give him anything he needed.   
  
Like this, like taking him again and again, using him the way he wanted to be used, dominating him until he didn’t have to think, until all he had left was to feel. Jazz surrendered to it, giving himself over to Ricochet, his aft clenching around him, and his spike throbbing desperately. He gasped around Ricochet’s fingers, wordlessly demanding a further push of boundaries. He stroked himself obediently, pre-fluid streaming over his fingers.   
  
“Next time you need this, I’ll take the time to tie you down,” Ricochet murmured, the fantasy unspooling in his processor as he thrust into his brother, taking him harder and faster and deeper. “You won’t be able to move. You won’t be able to do anything but take what I give you.”   
  
He grunted as he thrust up, bouncing Jazz in his lap, and his brother spasmed, squeezing his spike hard to stave off overload. He panted, vents spilling heat into the tiny space.   
  
“And then I’ll hand you over to Bluestreak,” Ricochet said, the burst of need in his brother’s field giving him all the answer about Bluestreak. “I’ll sit back, and I’ll watch as he breaks you, and we can put you back together again.”   
  
Jazz garbled a moan. His field screamed, begging for it.   
  
Primus, he was perfect.   
  
Overload snatched hold of Ricochet, and he yanked Jazz down onto his spike as he spilled his pleasure, painting Jazz’s aft port with his transfluid. He ground deep, enough for discomfort, fingers squeezing Jazz’s intake past the point of comfort.   
  
Jazz convulsed in his grip, a low keening at the base of his intake, rattling around Ricochet’s fingers. He gripped his spike hard enough for it to hurt, every armor plate tensing from the strain.   
  
“Do it,” Ricochet commanded, static in his vocals as the pleasure striped his visual feed in gray static. “Overload.”   
  
Jazz snatched his hand away from his spike as though he’d been burned, and transfluid erupted from the tip, splattering across the floor. He tossed his head back in Ricochet’s grip, gasping static as he overloaded, aft rhythmically squeezing and valve spasming around Ricochet’s fingers.   
  
Ricochet grabbed Jazz’s chin and pulled him into a kiss, claiming his brother’s mouth with lips and denta and glossa. Jazz moaned into the kiss and tried to pull away.   
  
“Mine,” Ricochet growled and bit at his bottom lip.   
  
Jazz jerked, his field drizzling lust. “Wait. Stop. I gotta--” He cut off, vents audibly gasping. “My comm!”   
  
“They can wait.” Ricochet sealed their lips together, deepening the kiss, tasting the desperation on Jazz’s glossa.   
  
Jazz grabbed at his wrist and wriggled, becoming as slippery as an electro-eel. “It’s Prowl!” he snapped and pulled back, his visor flashing.   
  
Ricochet growled but shifted his hold to curve around his brother’s waist, keeping Jazz speared on his spike. He wasn’t done yet.   
  
“Fragger,” Jazz hissed, slapping at him, but his other hand rose to his comm. “What is it, Prowl? I’m busy.”   
  
Ricochet slid his other hand over Jazz’s thigh, creeping toward his groin. He painted his fingers in lubricant, tracing them around Jazz’s valve rim.   
  
“I don’t answer to yer beck and call, ya know,” Jazz snapped even as he shivered, rocking his hips on Ricochet’s spike. “That’s not the point.”   
  
Ricochet grinned and found Jazz’s anterior node, pinning it between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a sharp pinch. Jazz hissed and swung an elbow back into his chassis.   
  
Ricochet chuckled and gentled his touch, playing with his twin while he waited for Jazz to pay attention to him.   
  
“Fine,” Jazz bit out, and his field spiked with anger, erasing half the work Ricochet had done to ease his stress. “I’ll be there.” He dropped his hand with a sharp snap.   
  
Ricochet circled his anterior node. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”   
  
“You’re tellin’ me.” Jazz growled a sigh. He grabbed Ricochet’s wrist and lifted it away from his valve. “I gotta go.” He pulled them up, glossa lapping over them, cleaning up his own lubricant.   
  
“Such a shame.” Ricochet stroked Jazz’s glossa, shivering as Jazz lapped at his fingers eagerly. “Prowl loves to ruin a good time.”   
  
Jazz groaned. “Tell me about it.” He pulled off Ricochet’s spike slowly, with evident reluctance, and cupped Ricochet’s face, brushing their lips together. “Thanks, bro. I owe you one.”   
  
“Several, but who’s counting?”  
  


~

  
  
Prowl had given up on going home. When was it he’d last recharged in his apartment? A week ago? Longer?   
  
There was too much work to do. Mechs were dying, and he couldn’t keep a lid on it any longer. The rumors spread faster than he could stop them, and now the newsmechs had picked up on it. By tomorrow, all of Cybertron would know that mechs were being murdered and they had yet to catch a perpetrator.   
  
Tomorrow was going to be a very, very bad day.   
  
His door opened.   
  
“I’d ask what took you so long, but frankly, I don’t want to know,” Prowl said without looking up to acknowledge his visitor. He already knew who it was, this late at night when everyone else in the office had gone home for the day. “Just get in here.”   
  
Jazz snorted, and the door shut behind him. “Yeah, nice to see you, too. Ya find someone to frag ya yet? Because you could surely use an overload or two.”   
  
Prowl narrowed his optics and lifted his gaze. Jazz had his arms crossed under his bumper, and a scowl on his lips. He’d also been less than thorough in cleaning himself, because a few specks of lubricant glittered on his inner thighs.   
  
Typical.   
  
“I’ve finished compiling the data,” Prowl said, careful to keep his tone bland and unaffected. He would not rise to Jazz’s bait. He tilted his head toward a datapad on the corner of his desk. “There.”   
  
“What data?” Jazz unbent long enough to pick up the datapad and power it on, skimming quickly over the table of contents.   
  
“That is a summary and cross-connection of every Wrecker who ever served, the missions they were assigned, the mechs they encountered, and the teams they were assigned. There’s also a map of all their connections: romantic, platonic, and otherwise.”  
  
“Primus, Prowl. Don’t you recharge?”   
  
Prowl sighed and scrubbed at his forehead, feeling an ache building behind his optics. “I’ll recharge when you catch this killer.” He pointed at the datapad. “There should be enough information to connect the dots there.”   
  
“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yourself,” Jazz commented, and there was a begrudging respect in his voice.   
  
“I’m missing context.” Prowl lowered his gaze back to his paperwork. “I don’t have time to interview mechs. That’s your job.” He pulled up Starscream’s proposal for off-planet mining. “I have my suspects.”   
  
Jazz frowned in Prowl’s peripheral vision. “Who?”   
  
“When I find some evidence, you’ll know. Until then, it’s suspicion only.” He looked up, over the bridge of his nose. “Find me some evidence.”   
  
“Yeah, sure. Lemme just pull it out of my aft.” Jazz chuffed a vent, his field spiking with irritation, obviously aimed at Prowl. Because Jazz didn’t let anyone taste his field who he didn’t want.   
  
Prowl flicked a hand at him. “If that’s where you think you're going to find it.”  
  
Jazz huffed. “You’re an aft, Prowl,” he snarled, and spun on a heelstrut, stomping out the door and taking his storm of a field with him.   
  
Prowl waited until the count of twenty before he reached for the comm console on his desk and activated it.   
  
“Springarm? Do it.”  
  


~

  
  
Ricochet smelled like interfacing. He stank of ozone, of lubricant and transfluid, and whatever he’d done, he’d only given himself a cursory wipe because there were paint streaks on his thighs and abdominal armor.   
  
Blurr noticed because he was a bartender, and his livelihood depended on him being observant.   
  
There was an ease at which Ricochet sat at the end of the bar, after he’d been missing for the better part of twenty minutes, only to emerge from Blurr’s storage room on Jazz’s heelstruts. Jazz looked angry, didn’t even stop to say hello, but Ricochet had a smug look on his face.  
  
Blurr wasn’t jealous. There was no need to be jealous.   
  
Curious now.   
  
He was definitely curious.   
  
“Look,” he said as he rapped his knuckles on the counter to get Ricochet’s attention. “I don’t really care what you and your brother do together, but not in my bar.”   
  
Ricochet smirked and snagged a handful of rusted bolts, popping them into his mouth. “You tryin’ to tell me you ain’t never had a tryst or two in that store room.”   
  
“It’s my bar. I can do whatever I want,” Blurr said. He tugged the bowl out of Ricochet’s reach. Those were for paying customers.   
  
Ricochet grabbed the bowl, and it stalled between them. He grinned up at Blurr. “Can ya take a break then? I got a nice, cozy crate in your storage room.”   
  
“Didn’t you get enough?” Blurr chuffed and let go of the bowl.   
  
Ricochet dragged it back close. He popped another candied bolt into his mouth. “Didn’t get to finish. Besides, there’s always room for dessert.”   
  
“I don’t like sloppy seconds.”   
  
“So you’re jealous.”   
  
Blurr planted his hands on the edge of the counter and glared. “What would I have to be jealous of?”   
  
Ricochet leaned forward, his field reaching out and stroking on the edges of Blurr’s, buzzing with heat and promise. “Mmm. The things I could do you ya, maybe.”   
  
“You’d do them anyway,” Blurr retorted, ignoring the shiver that climbed down his spinal strut and took up residence in his groin.   
  
“True. But I could indulge now rather than later.” Ricochet’s glossa swept over his lips, and Blurr tracked the motion. “Up to you.”   
  
A strange ripple spread through his bar. It made Blurr’s sensors prickle, and he looked up from Ricochet toward the main door, where a handful of the local law enforcement had stepped in the doors. They carried themselves too stiffly, with squared shoulders and no-nonsense expressions, to be here for an after-shift drink.   
  
“Hold that thought,” Blurr said. He moved to the end of the bar, tossing a meshcloth over his shoulder. “Looking for something, gentlemechs?”   
  
One of them stepped toward the bar, his Enforcer badge gleaming on his chestplate. It took a moment, but Blurr recognized him as a frequent customer -- Springarm.   
  
“Sorry to disturb your evening, Blurr. We’re looking for someone in particular,” Springarm said, and behind him, his fellow guards were scanning the bar.   
  
Blurr braced his weight on the counter edge. “Who? Maybe I’ve seen him.”   
  
“Sir.” The pale gray Enforcer to Springarm’s right tapped him on the arm. “He’s over there.” He tilted his head pointedly.   
  
Blurr followed his gaze.   
  
He stiffened.   
  
The Enforcers, as one, had set their sights on Ricochet.   
  


***


	6. Chapter 6

No matter how many times Jazz watched the video, he didn’t believe it.   
  
Sure, the feed seemed to show Ricochet stealing into Piston’s apartment, breaking into the security system, and letting himself inside. And yeah, the timestamp on the video matched the exact date and time Piston had been killed.   
  
Jazz still didn’t believe it.   
  
Yes, Ricochet had been a Decepticon once. And yes, as a Decepticon, he’d been what they would’ve considered a Special Ops agent or even a Wrecker. But that didn’t mean he was behind the killings now. It didn’t matter that it was well within his skillset.   
  
For one, it was sloppy.   
  
For two, he’d never lie to Jazz. He couldn’t lie to Jazz. He wasn’t lying to Jazz now. He didn’t do it.   
  
The murders were personal. Smokescreen admitted as much. Where was the motive? The reasoning? Why would Ricochet do it?   
  
Prowl couldn’t answer those questions. Refused to even consider them. The sneaky aft. He’d made sure to arrest Ricochet when Jazz was otherwise occupied because he knew Jazz would protest.   
  
Someday, that was going to bite him in the aft. Jazz had his ways.  
  
"It's not him!" Jazz insisted, slamming his hands down on the desk in front of Prowl, the loud smack of his palms against the heavy metal echoing through the office.   
  
Prowl didn't flinch. "The evidence suggests otherwise." His sensory panels remained perfectly still, his field a tightly contained box Jazz couldn't pry open. "If you want to convince me of his innocence, bring me proof and a more plausible subject. He doesn't get a pass just because he's your twin."   
  
"You are not this much of an idiot," Jazz hissed, anger spiking through his field before he could contain it. "What the frag is his motive?"  
  
"Motive will be determined through an interview with the suspect." Prowl made a notation before setting down his stylus and folding his hands together on top of the desk. He finally looked up at Jazz. "You are aware of how the process works, I know."   
  
"Don't give me that even-toned pitslag." Jazz seethed, hissing a vent through his denta. "His arrest is a farce, and you know it. You're so damn eager to have someone to blame, you don't want to see any further than the first bit of shaky evidence."   
  
Prowl arched an orbital ridge. "Video evidence is hardly shaky," he said. "And the fact is, your brother's skillset certainly fits within the specifications for the crime."   
  
"That doesn't mean he's guilty!"   
  
"Perhaps not. But I would be remiss if I did not treat him as a suspect." Prowl sighed a vent, the long, hissing sigh of exasperation Jazz loathed because he only aimed it at mechs he considered idiots. "I have to consider the evidence. I can't assume he's innocent because you told me to. I need proof, Jazz. That's how things work."   
  
Jazz squared his jaw. He glared.   
  
Prowl didn't flinch.   
  
It had been like this with them for centuries. They worked well as a unit. But when they clashed, it was fire and brimstone, and more than once, they'd nearly started an interfactional war.   
  
"You are a self-serving aft," Jazz snarled.   
  
Prowl unfolded his hands, picked up his stylus, and bent back over his datapad. "Bring me evidence. Then we can talk about releasing Ricochet."   
  
"You've denied him a bond hearing?"   
  
"Of course. He's dangerous and liable to leave the planet if given half the chance. So long as he's a suspect, he's going to remain in custody."   
  
Fury flashed wide and bright in Jazz's field before he could contain it. The only indication Prowl sensed it was the tiniest twitch in his left sensory panel. Cold as liquid nitrogen, Prowl was. He fit the nickname "Icespark" all too well.   
  
Jazz spoke through gritted denta, "This is one of the stupidest things you've done."   
  
Prowl didn't look at him. "Bring me another suspect with sufficient evidence, and I will free your brother. It's that simple, Jazz. I'm sure you are capable of understanding that."   
  
Jazz's engine growled so hard it slipped into a whine. His fingertips curved against the desk in a thin shriek of metal on metal. He vented loudly, bundling up all his anger and his fury, before slamming it down behind a wall.   
  
"Fine," he said, and pushed off the desk, every plate of his armor taut with tension. "You owe me an apology after this."   
  
"If one is deserved, one will be given." Prowl flicked his stylus in a signature and moved to the next datapad. "Dismissed."   
  
Jazz stomped out of the office. He had work to do.   
  


~

  
  
"I apologize. I know this is frustrating. I'll be done soon," Springarm said, with a tone that was falsely soothing and a smile equally false. He must have been a good student at the school of Prowl Facial Expressions.   
  
Someone had an idol. Frankly, Blurr would have picked one with more social acumen.  
  
Blurr scrubbed his forehead, an ache building behind his optics, one leg jittering up and down from restrained energy. He'd been in this chair for an hour. He wanted to go home. "You're asking me the same questions over and over. Why do you think you're going to get a different answer?"  
  
"It's standard procedure," Springarm said, still with that blatantly disingenuous smile. "Liars often forget the webs of their own lies. If you're telling the truth, you'll be consistent."   
  
"How am I even a suspect?" Blurr demanded.   
  
"You're not." Springarm scooted a cube of midgrade across the table, despite the fact Blurr had refused it twice already. "But your statement could help us convict a dangerous criminal."   
  
Blurr crossed his arms and sank down in the chair a bit further. "Or free him."   
  
"That as well. After all, right now, you are his only alibi for the night in question."   
  
"Your accusation doesn't make sense!" Blurr tossed his arms in the air before he folded them again, the other leg starting to jitter now. "If he's the one doing this, why aren't I dead already? Why is he doing it in the first place? What's the point?"   
  
Springarm slid a datapad in front of him, a slim, tiny device that had seen a lot of use, given the scratches and dents in the protective case. "There are many potential motives for someone of Ricochet's skillset. It may not be personal. It may be business. Or it may be political." His tone was bland, but his jaw was tight.   
  
The bruising around his right ocular socket might have had something to do with it. Ricochet hadn't enjoyed being arrested. Nor had he appreciated how rough they'd been with him. More than a few Enforcers had walked out of Blurr's bar with dents, scrapes, and torn cables.   
  
"You two are involved, yes?" Springarm asked, for the third time this interview, though each time it had been worded slightly differently.   
  
"Involved is a strong word."   
  
"You have engaged in intimate relationships, yes?"   
  
Blurr rolled his optics. "We've fragged." There was no point in being cute about it. "I don't see how that's relevant."   
  
"Personal relationships can often skew one's perception of another individual," Springarm said as he made a notation on his datapad.   
  
"It's not a relationship." Blurr leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "We've fragged. Other than that, I barely know him. He's only living with me because Jazz asked him to watch my back since there’s a serial murderer running around."   
  
Springarm hummed thoughtfully. "It must've come as a shock, then, when he was arrested for those same murders."   
  
"It's pitslag. He didn't do it."   
  
Springarm looked up at him, one orbital ridge raised. "You sound very certain considering you, in your own words, barely know him."   
  
"He was in my berth! Fragging me!" Blurr spluttered, tossing his arms in the air and smacking back into the chair, his boosters clanging painfully. "He couldn't have done it. I'm not protecting him, I'm just telling you the truth as it is!"   
  
Springarm made a noncommittal noise. "He's not the first mech with a saboteur skillset who's shared your berth, is he?"   
  
Blurr cycled his optics. "What?"   
  
Springarm tapped the datapad with the end of his stylus. "You've had intimate relations with other mechs who we would consider 'spies'?" The last he enunciated with actual, physical air quotes.   
  
"Why does that even matter?"   
  
"I'm trying to make a point here, Blurr."   
  
He vented noisily. "Yes," Blurr admitted, though his engine revved, and his field flicked with annoyance. "I've interfaced with spies and mechs who have unique saboteur talents."   
  
"And they've never slipped from your berth without you knowing it?"   
  
Blurr's mouth opened, and then snapped shut again. For the first time, a seed of doubt took root in his processor.   
  
Jazz was notorious for leaving the berth before morning with Blurr being none the wiser. Sometimes, so skillfully, Blurr doubted he'd ever been there at all. Sometimes, even after Blurr had fallen into recharge with Jazz beneath him, their limbs tangled.   
  
"So." Springarm laced his fingers on top of his datapad. "Given that, do you think it might be possible Ricochet is capable of the same?"   
  
Blurr couldn't find any words. Because he knew Springarm had a point. Besides, wouldn't it be the perfect cover? To act as a backup for someone who you either never intended to target or would target last?   
  
Further, Ricochet was a Decepticon. Formerly, yes, but just because the war was over didn't mean that alliances and bonds had been cast aside. Springarm's suggestion of a political motivation made sense. Ricochet wasn't exactly working before he accepted Jazz's offer. How was he earning his creds? Was he still a Decepticon? Or was he a Neutral freelancer?  
  
Mechs had killed for less.   
  
"Right now, you are Ricochet's only alibi." Springarm had gone back to his soothing, cajoling tone. "So I want you to think long and hard about what you're risking for him."   
  
Blurr swallowed hard. "Am I under arrest?"   
  
"Of course not. You've done nothing wrong." Springarm smiled blandly and spread his hands. "Thank you for your cooperation, Blurr. You've been most helpful."   
  
"Then I can go?"   
  
Springarm nodded. "Yes, I think I have all I need. I'll contact you if I have any further questions."   
  
Blurr rose from the chair, eager to be on his way. He was angry, and he was confused, and he needed answers, without knowing where to find them.   
  
"You have my comm code," Springarm added as he stood to hold the door open for Blurr, his tone carefully polite and gentle. "If you remember anything further, you know how to reach me."   
  
"Yeah. I do."   
  
Blurr left before they could ask him anything else, though he felt Springarm's judging gaze on him every step of the way.   
  


~

  
  
Rodimus did not like paperwork.   
  
He didn't like being cooped up in his office with Ultra Magnus breathing down his neck, staring down the barrel of a stack of datapads half as tall as himself. His fingers cramped, his back cables knotted up, and it was a challenge to stay awake. He was a doer not a sitter.   
  
Which meant Jazz storming into his office in a fit of pique had just become the highlight of his day.   
  
Rodimus tossed his stylus over his shoulder and greeted Jazz with a grin, though a part of him quailed at the fury bleeding from Jazz's visor. He was not immune to the danger Jazz presented, especially in his current state.   
  
"Please tell me you have something interesting," Rodimus said.   
  
Jazz's hands pulled into fists. "Prowl arrested my brother."   
  
Rodimus cycled his optics. "What did he do?"   
  
"Nothing!"   
  
Rodimus' orbital ridges tried to climb away from his face. "Prowl's not one to randomly arrest mechs. What aren't you telling me?"   
  
Jazz scrubbed at his forehead and started to pace, like a caged animal desperate to be unleashed. "You know about the Wrecker Murders?"   
  
"Jazz, I'm the Prime. Of course I know about the murders." Rodimus cycled his optics as the pieces fell into place, and he made the connection. "Wait. Your brother?"   
  
"Of course not!" Jazz snapped, and his field flashed molten with fury around the room. "But a little bit of obviously doctored footage, and Prowl's so damn eager to arrest someone, he's thrown Ricochet into a cell!"   
  
Rodimus pressed his lips together. He sat back in his chair, feeling an ache behind his optics. "You know for sure the footage is doctored?"   
  
"Well. I haven't had a chance to examine it yet," Jazz admitted, and he gave Rodimus a sidelong look.   
  
Primus. How had something already terrible devolved into a complete nightmare? Aside from the friction between two of his best leaders, it was a political nightmare as well. Ricochet was a former Decepticon.   
  
Starscream was going to get one whiff of this, and there would be no hearing the end of it. He was already making noise about Metrocon getting the lesser end of the supply deliveries and pay. If he thought Autobots were unfairly arresting Decepticons, even former Decepticons, he'd pitch a fit.   
  
Rodimus pinched his nose. "So you want me to order Prowl to release Ricochet with no evidence on the sole reason that he is your brother?"   
  
"He didn't do it!"   
  
"I hear you." Rodimus held up a hand to forestall further argument. He couldn't give off the same commanding presence Optimus had, but he tried anyway. "And I'm not saying he did it. I'm just saying that somewhere in that stack is Prowl's current report on the situation." He pointed to the leaning tower of datapads on the corner of his desk. "Which means you know more about what's going on than I do. If I stick my nose in it, I'm treading on all kinds of toes."   
  
Jazz threw his hands into the air and noisily vented. "You're the Prime!"   
  
"I'm not an all encompassing leader. Not anymore, remember? I'm basically a figurehead." Rodimus leaned back in his chair and sighed, sinking into the unyielding firmness of it. "They want my signature. They want me to smile for the cameras, but real power? I don't have it." He spread his hands. "Safety and Security is Prowl's purview."   
  
"That's pitslag." Jazz whirled toward him and planted his hands on the desk, leaning over it to glare at Rodimus with enough heat his backstrut quailed. "He answers to you."   
  
"He answers to the people of Autobot City," Rodimus corrected. An ache began behind his optics, and of all the mechs of his council, he’d always thought Jazz would never be the one to cause it. “Rumors have already spread about the murders. People think we can’t keep them safe. I’ve already got two separate groups lobbying for open carry of weapons again.”   
  
Jazz’s visor flashed. “So you’re just going to let him use my brother as an example?”   
  
“I trust that Prowl has just cause to detain him,” Rodimus replied, and prayed to Primus he wasn’t making an enemy. “If you find proof Prowl is being disingenuous in his arrest, or that Ricochet was wrongly accused, I will interfere. I promise. But for now, he stays in Enforcer custody.”   
  
Jazz stared at him, and he was impossible to read. Rodimus had never been particularly close to Jazz, he’d always been closer to Optimus than anyone else. Perhaps if he’d had a better relationship, Jazz would trust him without question.   
  
Jazz’s jaw twisted. He spoke, and it came out low and menacing. “Optimus would have trusted me.”   
  
Ouch.   
  
That was so not fair and completely unnecessary.   
  
Rodimus flinched. He couldn’t help it. “Well Optimus is gone,” he said, matching Jazz’s cold and even tone. “So I’m what you’re stuck with. And I kindly ask that you leave my office since I obviously can’t help you.”   
  
For a moment, he thought there was apology in Jazz’s visor. But then it was gone, hidden behind an immediate wall of transsteel and danger.   
  
“Fine.” Jazz pushed off the desk and spun on a heelstrut, storming from Rodimus’ office without so much as a by-your-leave.   
  
In his absence, Rodimus vented and dropped his head back, shuttering his optics. Primus, what a nightmare.   
  
He scrubbed his forehead again, dug through his stack of datapads for the relevant one, and pinged Prowl. He could, at the very least, look into the matter.   
  
It was what Optimus would have done.   
  


~

  
  
Blurr went home.   
  
Bluestreak and Riptide had New Maccadam’s well in hand, and he didn’t want to deal with the questions anyway. The place was going to be a media circus as soon as the news picked up on the public arrest, especially considering they’d pulled Blurr in for an interview at the same time.   
  
This was not the kind of publicity that was beneficial.   
  
Blurr was tired, and he was angry, and he was confused, and all he wanted to do was be home. By himself. Was he safe now? He didn’t know what to think.   
  
Jazz was waiting for him. Inside his apartment, no less, as if to show how shoddy his security system was.   
  
“I thought Ricochet upgraded my security,” Blurr said, and his exhaustion leaked into his vocals, echoing them with static.   
  
“He left me a backdoor,” Jazz said from his position on Blurr’s couch, less a sprawl and more of a tightly contained seat. He sounded as dull and narrowly angry as Blurr felt.   
  
Blurr twisted his jaw. “Wonder who else he left a backdoor for.”   
  
Jazz looked up at him slowly, the light behind his visor narrowing to a thin line of accusation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”   
  
“Exactly the way it sounds.” Blurr folded his arms and stared Jazz down. He wasn’t afraid of the saboteur, he’d spent too long in Jazz’s berth for that. “Was I going to be next on the list?”  
  
Jazz’s lip curled back. “You can’t honestly believe he did it.”   
  
“Why can’t I? I barely know him.”   
  
“Yeah, but you know me!” Jazz shot to his feet, his engine audibly revving, his armor drawing tight to his frame. “You think I’d put you in danger like that?”   
  
Blurr worked his intake. “I think that love blinds you, and you love your twin very, very much.”   
  
Jazz chuffed a vent. “Yeah, I love ‘im. But that don’t mean I don’t know when he’s an asshole. He’s done a lot of bad things, but he didn’t do this. I swear it, Blurr. I dunno what’s going on, but I know he’s not the murderer.”   
  
Blurr shifted his weight, tearing his gaze away. Jazz sounded so earnest, and it was impossible not to believe him. Especially since Blurr wanted to. He wanted to believe he hadn’t been fragging the mech responsible for killing so many of his fellow Wreckers in such brutal ways.   
  
“And I need your help.”   
  
Blurr’s gaze jerked back toward Jazz. “My help? For what?”   
  
“For breaking Ricochet out of jail.”   
  
Blurr stared. “Come again?”   
  
Jazz sighed and came around the low table in front of the couch, scrubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “Prowl won’t listen to reason. Someone has to be setting my brother up. I’m worried he’s not safe in jail, and I can’t try and figure out what’s going on if he’s stuck in there.”   
  
Blurr’s mouth opened. Closed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you serious?”   
  
“Of course I am.” Jazz moved closer, and his field was a jittery mess, which was weird enough, considering Blurr usually couldn’t feel it. “While he’s sitting in jail, Prowl’s looking in all the wrong places, and the real killer is still out there.”   
  
Blurr shook his head, his confusion deepening. “Breaking him out of prison doesn’t solve any of that. It just makes him look more guilty.”   
  
“Yeah, well at least he’ll be alive. I don’t know he’s going to stay that way otherwise,” Jazz snapped. His armor fluffed, talons extending from his fingertips before he retracted them. “I could use your help.”   
  
Blurr nibbled on his bottom lip. “Jazz, I’m grateful to you for a lot, but helping you get him out of jail? I can’t do that.”   
  
“Can’t or won’t?” Jazz demanded.   
  
“Both.”   
  
Jazz loudly vented, and Blurr echoed the noise, feeling more than a little trapped by Jazz’s insistence. “Look, I’m not ungrateful. It’s just not a small favor, and I’m not sure what to believe right now.”   
  
He didn’t know who to trust, and that scared Blurr most of all. Especially since he had so much to lose if this went wrong or the Enforcers got so much of a whiff of Blurr’s involvement. They could take his bar, they could throw him in prison. His life would be ruined.   
  
“Fine,” Jazz bit out. He slid past Blurr, his field spooling tight to his frame. “Just be careful. The real perpetrator is still out there, and everyone’s gonna be less on their guard because they think they’re safe.”   
  
Blurr turned to watch him go, trying to ignore the little curl of guilt building in his tank. He couldn’t.   
  
Jazz was his friend, and Ricochet had been his berth partner, and they’d both tried to protect him in their own ways. Blurr didn’t know what to believe, but he was sure Jazz had been genuine in his desire to keep Blurr safe.   
  
Worse. Jazz was right. Everyone would believe they were safe with Ricochet in custody. The Wreckers wouldn’t be on their guard. The ones tasked with keeping the Wreckers safe would either be pulled from their duties, or would be more lax. If Ricochet wasn’t the perpetrator, a lot of mechs were in greater danger now.   
  
There was a lot more at stake than Blurr’s business.   
  
“I’ll think about it,” Blurr said as Jazz palmed the door open, the security system recognizing him even though it should have only recognized Blurr.   
  
“Good.”   
  
Jazz left.   
  
Blurr stared where he’d been, the exhaustion settling on his shoulders like a heavy weight. He scrubbed at his forehead and cycled a ventilation.   
  
What a fragging mess.   
  


***


	7. Chapter 7

Bluestreak was handing over the reins to a very disappointed Riptide when Jazz came into New Maccadam's, a smile on his face, a spring in his step, and both of them very, very false. Bluestreak's radar pinged.   
  
Ricochet was in prison, and Prowl refused to release him. Prowl had told Bluestreak as much, and asked him to look out for Jazz, just in case he decided to do something stupid.   
  
Personally, Bluestreak thought Jazz was entitled to something stupid. Ricochet's arrest was absurd, and Prowl knew it, too. Political pressure was a crushing weight.   
  
Bluestreak moved to intercept before Riptide could ask what Jazz wanted as Jazz slinked up to the counter, hopping into an open stool.   
  
"Hey Blue!" he said cheerfully, though the harmonics in his tone did not match the aura he was trying to project. "Can I get a Toxic Turnover?"   
  
Prowl was playing a very, very dangerous game, and Bluestreak vowed to give his mentor a piece of his mind, the next time they spoke.   
  
"It's a bit early for something that heavy, isn't it?" Bluestreak asked.   
  
Jazz drummed his palms on the counter. "It's past suncycle. I at least waited until after dark."   
  
"I meant, you usually start with lighter fare." Bluestreak started to mix a drink, not the Toxic Turnover like Jazz asked, but something with a lot less kick. "What's the occasion?"   
  
The visor finally focused on him. "Prowl," Jazz declared in a low, heavy tone, "is an aft."   
  
Bluestreak nodded slowly, added a spritz of carbonizer, then slid the Merry Madness across to Jazz. "There are a lot of mechs who'd agree with you. I mean, he has his moments where he shows his softer side, but he's a hard mech to get along with. He's kind of had to be."   
  
"I ain't disparaging him," Jazz said, waving him off while snagging the drink with his other hand. "Just making a statement of the kind of day I've had."   
  
"Fair enough." Bluestreak folded his arms and leaned forward, against the counter. "How's Ricochet?"   
  
"Dunno. They won't let me talk to him." Jazz peered at his drink, his visor streaking with confusion. "This ain't a Toxic Turnover."   
  
“No, it’s not.” Bluestreak tilted his head, his spark giving the usual heavy throb of want and affection it always did whenever he was close to Jazz. “You don’t need something like that right now.”   
  
Jazz picked up the cube, swirling the liquid around. “Funny how you’re so sure of what I need.” He tilted the cube up and drained it in several long, quick gulps. He slammed the empty down on the counter. “Another.”   
  
Bluestreak thinned his lips. Jazz glared at him, insisting with his gaze, and with the heavy pressure of his field. Bluestreak could resist it, far more than Jazz knew, but that wasn’t the point.   
  
“You asked me something once,” Bluestreak started as he bent down beneath the counter, grabbing what he’d need to make another drink. “You wanted to know why I turned you down. I gave you an answer, but now, I still don’t think you understand it.”   
  
“Blue, come on. I can’t have this kind of conversation right now.” Jazz scrubbed his forehead and drummed his free hand on top of the counter. “I need to get drunk, or I need to get fragged. I need something.”   
  
“Neither of those things are what you need.” Bluestreak handed him another Merry Madness, though it was weaker than the one before. “Neither of them are a solution or are helpful. They aren’t going to get Ricochet out of jail. And they might help you forget things, but not for long, and the consequences after are only going to make things worse.”   
  
Jazz frowned at him. He toyed with the cube, fiddling with his fingers. “It keeps sounding like you’re trying to tell me somethin’, but you won’t come out and say it.”   
  
“Because I can’t. If I do, you’ll take it, and then I won’t know if you’re genuine or not.” Bluestreak swiped the Merry Madness from Jazz’s hand and tipped it back himself, draining it in a few quick gulps before setting it down on the counter with a definitive tap. “Come on. I’m going to take you home.”   
  
Jazz leaned back, arms crossed under his bumper. “I’m not anywhere near tipsy.”   
  
“I’m not leaving you here to get that way.” Bluestreak took the empties and put them in the crate for later cleaning. He signaled to Riptide he was finally leaving and emerged from behind the bar.   
  
“I don’t need you lookin’ after me.”   
  
“Someone needs to.” Bluestreak stood nearby, hands on his hips, and gave Jazz a practiced, firm look. One he’d used on several lovers in the past, all who’d had … unique needs, not unlike Jazz’s. “You’re reminding me of Sunstreaker right now, you know. And that’s not a compliment.”   
  
“It could be.” Jazz slid off the stool with a tap-tap of one foot and then the other. Deliberate noise, it had to be, because Bluestreak knew he moved silently usually. "He's a handsome mech."   
  
"And a bit of an aft when he's sulking and Sideswipe's not around."   
  
"I am  _not_  sulking."   
  
Bluestreak managed a smile at the teasing lilt in Jazz's tone. "Then what you do you call it?"   
  
"Moping with style." Jazz struck a pose before offering an arm out to Bluestreak. "If you're not going to let me drink or hunt, then you're obligated to see me home."   
  
Bluestreak threaded his arm through Jazz's elbow and tugged him toward the door. "That was my intention, Jazz."   
  
"I could really use a frag right now."   
  
"That's not what I meant." Despite himself, Bluestreak chuckled. There hadn't been anything serious in the suggestion. Jazz was very good at hiding his pain behind playfulness.   
  
Unfortunately for him, Bluestreak had always been good at ferreting out secrets. The Enforcer Academy might have rejected him, but Prowl had use for an insightful detective during the course of the war. Unlike what people thought, torture didn’t always net secrets. Ferreting some of them out needed a lighter touch.   
  
Jazz shrugged. "Thought it was worth a shot."   
  
They plunged into a tepid evening, the streets half as busy during daycycle, but still dotted with the occasional mech. No one paid them any attention. Most Cybertronians tended to mind their own business nowadays.   
  
It was refreshing.   
  
"There are many things I'm willing to do for you," Bluestreak said, keeping his tone light, his gaze distant. "I want to help you as much as I can. But what you're asking for is something I can't give you. It's not what I want, and if we don't want the same things, then it's best we stay friends."   
  
Jazz sighed and put distance between them, unhooking Bluestreak from his arm. "I'd rather you didn't help, if that's what it means. It feels like a game I'm tired of playin'. It was fun at first, but now I'm just disappointed all the time, and that's enough of that, I think."   
  
"It's not a game."   
  
"Then what is it?" Jazz threw his hands in the air and circled around in front of Bluestreak, skidding to a halt, his field an oppressive presence as it swarmed Bluestreak. "You're obviously not interested. You've turned me down every time. But then ya keep makin' these vague statements that imply ya might be."   
  
Bluestreak cycled a slow, steady ventilation. Jazz glared at him, his visor bright, his engine revving, betraying the turbulence of his emotions. Now was not the time for this conversation. Jazz was upset already about Ricochet and Blurr and the whole situation.   
  
But letting it fester wasn't helping either.   
  
"What do you want from me?" Bluestreak asked.   
  
"That's obvious, isn't it?" Jazz snapped.   
  
Bluestreak shook his head slowly. "I know what I want from you." He took a step closer, crowding into Jazz's space, but Jazz held his ground, tilting his head up slightly to keep Bluestreak's gaze. "I know I want to claim you. I know I want to break you. I want to turn you inside out, and bend you until you're mine."  
  
Jazz's visor flared. A visible shiver ran over his armor. "That's--"  
  
Bluestreak cupped his cheek, carefully gentle, sweeping a thumb over it. "I want to recharge with you, and comfort you, and watch stupid movies with you and eat things that are bad for us and go driving off into the sunset, and slow dance to sappy love songs from Earth."  
  
A low growl started in Jazz's engine. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out.   
  
Bluestreak brought up his other hand, until he had Jazz's face cradled. "What I want from you is nothing that can be satisfied in a single night. I intend to keep you."   
  
He set his mouth over Jazz's, making the kiss soft and sweet at first, before he eased his glossa into Jazz's mouth and deepened the kiss. Lips and denta and glosa, pressure and the swamping weight of his field, all of it surrounding Jazz. A distant moan was muffled by Bluestreak's lips, and Jazz wobbled, only for his hands to grab onto Bluestreak, steadying himself. He kissed Jazz until he memorized the taste of him, as if this would be the last kiss, and only then did he pull back.   
  
Jazz cycled a ventilation, his glossa sweeping over his lips. "Anyone ever tell you that you can be pretty intense?"   
  
"It's been a complaint or two." Bluestreak brushed his thumbs over Jazz's cheeks before letting him go.   
  
Jazz pressed his lips together and rubbed his forehead. "It's not that I don't want the same things, it's just, I can't have them, you know? I never can."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Because of my brother." Jazz grimaced, and it wasn't aimed at Bluestreak, but rather, something of his history, Bluestreak wagered. "He's mine, and I'm his, and that's the way it is. That's how it's always gonna be. I can never be anyone's. Not one-hundred percent."  
  
"I'm going to tell you a secret." Bluestreak stepped into Jazz's space again, stroking the withdrawn edges of Jazz's field with warm pulses of his own. Jazz tilted up to look at him again. "I already knew that. Sunstreaker is one of my best friends. I know how it can be with twins. I knew what it meant when I fell for you. And Jazz? I don't care."   
  
Jazz took another step back, and his field burst in a startled display of emotion before he could rein it in. "You don't mean that. Everyone says it, but they don't mean it." He shook his head, like he'd been tossed for a loop. "Sooner or later, the jealousy is gonna set in, and I'm goin' to be back where I was, crawlin' to Rico, because no one gets it."   
  
"And that's the choice you have to make -- whether you believe me and whether you want to try. But that's my line." Bluestreak drew a pretend line through the air. "I either want it all or nothing. I'm not going to jump in your berth once and consider it enough."   
  
"Primus." Jazz dragged a hand down his face, and he looked a little shaky, with streaks of light passing across his visor. "Blue, I can't even process that right now."   
  
"I know." Bluestreak offered a soft stroke of his field over Jazz's. "I'm not asking you to. Now's not the time. I"m just letting you know, whatever happens, I'm still your friend. I'm here for you, and I'll help you if you need it."   
  
Jazz rubbed around his mouth, nodding slowly. "And I 'preciate that." He rolled his shoulders and squared them, offering Bluestreak a hint of a genuine smile. "Thanks, Blue. I gotta lot to think about now."   
  
"I'm still going to walk you home." Bluestreak moved close enough to bump shoulders, though carefully. "These are dangerous streets. There are murderers out there."   
  
Jazz chuckled quietly. "Yeah. And I'm one of them." He nudged Bluestreak with an elbow. "Alright. Let's go."   
  


~

  
  
Prisons were nothing unfamiliar to Ricochet. He'd paid his time and his dues. Even in Autobot prisons. They didn't scare him or make him uneasy.   
  
It used to be the only way to get a good day's recharge in relative safety. And he used the term loosely.   
  
Sometimes, the jails were more dangerous than the streets.   
  
He lounged on the narrow berth in his cell and stared at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head. They'd assigned him a public defender, some scow named Intermed, and he'd spent all of two minutes interviewing Ricochet before leaving the room.   
  
Ricochet had the distinct sensation they weren't all that interested in trying him fairly. Or trying him at all.   
  
This stank of Prowl.   
  
Once a bureaucrat always a bureaucrat, just now with a different flavor. Ricochet knew of Prowl by reputation alone. Jazz told him a lot of stories, and Decepticon intel had always painted Prowl as a high-value target, if not one impossible to get to. Mech was too well protected. Killing him would have ended the war a lot sooner.   
  
Instead, he’d lived long enough to become everyone’s irritation in a post-war Cybertron.   
  
Jazz hadn't been to see him. Ricochet figured that wouldn't happen. Prowl knew better than to trust Jazz in these circumstances. He always had been smart.   
  
Too smart.   
  
Ricochet loathed smart mechs.   
  
Denying him access wouldn't stop Jazz. It would delay him. All Ricochet had to do was wait.   
  
Jazz would come for him.   
  
Jazz always came for him.   
  


~

  
  
It was the dull and repeated buzz of his comm system that jarred Blurr out of recharge. He rose slowly, fatigue dragging on his limbs, and it took far too long for him to realize what that annoying sound was.   
  
Blurr groaned.   
  
He rolled over and answered the ping without bothering to check the ident code. “What?”   
  
“I’m finally back in town and that’s the greeting I get? Are you still in the berth?” Drift’s voice poured into his comm, sounding far too cheerful for Blurr’s comfort.   
  
Blurr made himself sit up, though his processor swam, and he felt like he’d been hit by a Combiner. He couldn’t fathom why. He’d only had midgrade last night, and less than his usual intake. He’d seemed to lose the taste for it in the past couple of days.   
  
“When did you get back?” Blurr asked as he stumbled off the berth, in the vague direction of the door. His senses were slow to come online, and he rebooted them on instinct. That was the second time this week. He couldn’t ever remember being so sluggish.   
  
“Just now. You gonna come open the door or what?”   
  
“What? You’re outside?” Blurr staggered out of the berthroom, his ability to focus out of reach. It felt like he was moving through molasses.   
  
His front door buzzed.   
  
Blurr rubbed his forehead and stumbled over to the panel, keying it open, though he missed on the first try. Damn Ricochet. He’d forgotten they’d changed the code.   
  
Finally, he got the door open, and a beaming, grinning Drift waited for him on the other side, Ratchet standing just behind him, radiating equal levels of delight, though with far less visible exuberance than Drift. Seemed like the honeymoon had done the doc some good. Washed off those decades of rust at least.   
  
“Ugh,” Blurr groaned, and stepped aside so they could enter. “Newlyweds. And you had to bring that nauseating affection here, didn’t you?”   
  
“Are you jealous?” Drift asked as he came inside.   
  
“Hardly.” Blurr snorted and trudged back to his couch, falling onto it with an exhausted vent. Primus, his head was spinning. What the frag was wrong with him? He’d never felt like this before. The closest he could liken it was too a particularly long and dangerous race.   
  
“You look like slag,” Ratchet said as he tromped in behind his conjunx, his presence filling up the space like only a mech older than Primus could. “Stay up too late in your usual shenanigans?”   
  
Blurr scrubbed his face. “Not this time. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He pinched his nose. “You two picked a Pit of a time to come back to Cybertron.”   
  
“Yeah. We heard. S’why we came here.” Drift plopped down on the chair across from Blurr. “Shacking up with an ex-Con? Really?”   
  
“He came highly recommended.” Blurr dropped his hand and tried to focus on one of his closest friends and former teammate, his processor spinning again. His tanks clenched, demanding energon. “By Jazz.”   
  
“They’re brothers, right?” Drift said.   
  
“Twins,” Ratchet corrected, and he narrowed his optics at Blurr. He tilted his head and within seconds, the wash of a medical scan hit Blurr’s field, making him groan. It felt like sandpaper rasping against his sensory net.   
  
Ratchet’s optics widened, and his vents stuttered. “You berth-hopping little slagger,” he said as he shook his head. “You were fragging him, weren’t you?”   
  
Blurr glared. “What’s that got to do with anything?”   
  
Drift frowned, his gaze darting from Ratchet to Blurr and back again. “Yeah, Ratch. What’s it matter?”   
  
Ratchet sighed and scrubbed his forehead. “You’re sparked.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Blurr didn’t know which of them squeaked louder -- him or Drift. But Blurr sat up with a start, only to sway when his system rejected the too-quick motion. Primus, he needed some energon. It felt like he’d been running on empty for hours.   
  
“It’s why you look like slag,” Ratchet said, and he started to pace, back and forth, back and forth, the sight of it ramping up Blurr’s dizziness. “You probably feel exhausted. A bit queasy. Processing slow?”   
  
Check. Check. And check.   
  
“ _How_  am I sparked?” Blurr demanded. His thoughts raced a mile a minute, and everything kept slamming into a brick wall of confusion. It didn’t make sense.   
  
“The usual way, I imagine,” Drift drawled. He smirked, but there were stars in his optics, too. Maybe a bit of hunger. He’d gotten the husband and the honeymoon, maybe he wanted the next stage, too.   
  
Blurr redirected his glare at Drift, though anger seethed inside of him, building into a rightful froth for Ricochet. “That’s not what I meant,” he snapped. He slapped his chestplate pointedly. “I have a shunt  _and_  a guard.”   
  
“Nothing’s one-hundred percent effective.” Ratchet kept pacing, until Drift gave him a look, and he settled on the other open chair. “And you probably burn through both faster than most. When was the last time you had them checked?”   
  
That was a good question. He had no idea. No one ever told him that the recommended standard replacement period probably didn’t apply when it came to Blurr. This was news to him.   
  
“My last maintenance?” Blurr hazarded, trying to think of when that was. A couple years ago at least. It was peacetime! He didn’t need to see a medic even half as much as he used to, now that he wasn’t getting shot at or blown up or attacked on the daily.   
  
Ratchet sighed, and Blurr could hear the chastisement lurking in the sound.   
  
Blurr held up a hand. “Don’t start. Lesson learned.” He dropped his hand to his abdomen, as if he could feel the spark growing in his gestational tank. “I’m really sparked?”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
“It’s Ricochet’s,” Blurr said, dull. Though he supposed depending on the conception date, it could be Jazz’s. Or Tracks’. But Ricochet was more likely. He’d been Blurr’s steadiest partner for the past two weeks, give or take a few days.   
  
Drift coughed into his palm. “Are congratulations in order?”  
  
“I don’t even know.” Blurr scrubbed his face, his processor aching. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t intend it. I don’t even…” He trailed off. This was too much to absorb at once.   
  
A cube of energon appeared in front of him. Blurr looked up as Ratchet nudged it closer. Where had he gotten it from? Please Primus don’t let it be medgrade.   
  
“Drink,” Ratchet said. “You’re ill because you’re underpowered. You’re going to need to consume a lot if you intend to go through with this.”   
  
Blurr accepted the cube. “I have options,” he realized aloud. He sipped at the cube, thankful it wasn’t regular old standard grade, the clenching of his tank easing with every swallow. He cupped his belly again, thinking of the sparkling inside him.   
  
He’d never thought about sparklings. They were always a distant thing that maybe he’d have when he finally found someone he wanted to settle with. He had decades, centuries even, to worry about settling. During the war, he didn’t think beyond the next battle.   
  
He had an option to think past that now. He had a sparkling, and Ricochet did, too.   
  
Oh, Primus. Ricochet. How was he going to react?  
  
Blurr groaned and tipped his head back against the couch, shuttering his optics. This was a fragging clusterfrag of epic proportions. He was sparked. The potential sire was in prison for suspected murder. And if he wasn’t the perpetrator, there was still a murderer out there who had Blurr’s name on a lengthy list.   
  
Frag, frag, frag.   
  
“I’ll send you some information,” Ratchet said as he sat back down, though within reach of Drift, one hand cupping the back of Drift’s neck. “Whatever you decide, you can come to me.”   
  
“And me,” Drift said.   
  
Blurr nodded slowly and sipped more at the cube. “Thanks.” His mind swirled with complications, but one thing stood out louder than the rest.   
  
He pressed his lips together, pretended to contemplate behind the shelter of his cube, and sent Jazz a silent text message.   
  
‘ _I’m in_ ,’ he said. ‘ _I’ll help_.’   
  


***


	8. Chapter 8

Blurr asked to see Ricochet in private.   
  
No one batted an optic or tried to deny him. Which was a stark contrast to the reception Jazz received whenever he tried to get a few minutes with Ricochet. Prowl’s orders apparently.   
  
Sometimes, Prowl could be an aft.   
  
Blurr waited for them to bring Ricochet in. He sat in a hard chair with too high of a back, on one side of a metal table with magnetic strips to attach the magna-cuffs. The room was sterile and empty, without so much as a piece of art on the wall or a mirror, though the vid-recorders in each of the corners were proof nothing went unseen.   
  
They would be able to speak in private, true, but it was recorded and would probably be reviewed later. No matter. Blurr had no intention to explain the partial truth of why he was here. He had his part in the plan. That was all he had to do.   
  
Blurr twitched. He rapped his fingers on the table. He stared at the doorway, willing it to open, anxiety twisting into a knot inside his tank.   
  
He’d decided to keep the sparkling, no matter what Ricochet wanted. He wasn’t even sure he cared what Ricochet wanted. He needed to find out.   
  
He needed to know if Ricochet was worthy of trust first.   
  
The door opened. Ricochet shuffled inside, cuffed at the wrist and ankle, escorted by one of the Enforcers.   
  
“Sit,” the Enforcer demanded in a tone lacking all personality.   
  
Ricochet’s visor brightened when he saw Blurr. He sat, resting his hands on the table so his cuffs could be magnetized to the strip. Blurr assumed there was a strip beneath the table for his feet as well.   
  
“You’re so polite and charming,” Ricochet drawled with a tilted look at his escort. “Can I get ya transferred to my block maybe? I could use more personality around there.”   
  
The Enforcer glared. “Behave,” he said without so much as a look at Blurr. “You’re being monitored.” He pointed to the vid-recorders. “If we think for a moment you’re going to turn violent, we will respond with extreme prejudice.”   
  
Ricochet spread his hands, palms up, clanking the magna-cuffs. “I’m all tied up, officer. Not much I can do.” He grinned, showing his denta.   
  
Blurr cycled a ventilation. This was the mech he’d tied himself to. Ricochet couldn’t resist poking authority. That had to be the Decepticon in him.   
  
Then again, Jazz wasn’t much better.   
  
The Enforcer’s engine growled before he finally acknowledged Blurr. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”   
  
“Thanks,” Blurr said. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”   
  
The guard left. He locked the door behind him, the quiet click of it filling the empty space. Blurr watched his exit, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table. Suddenly, he couldn’t think of any words.   
  
“So,” Ricochet said, popping the word with far more exuberance than someone in his position had right to hold. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? Please tell me it’s a conjugal visit. My hand’s getting tired.”   
  
Blurr snorted and shifted his attention back to Ricochet. Now that he was paying attention, he could see the hints of anxiety in Ricochet’s frame, the light flutter of his armor, the paler shade of his visor. Autobots tended to dislike former Decepticons. Especially former Decepticons who had been accused of committing atrocities against Autobots.   
  
Jazz had been right to want to free his brother.   
  
“Is it true?” Blurr asked, because he was too tired and stressed to think about having tact. Besides, he figured Ricochet would prefer bluntness.   
  
Ricochet snorted a laugh. “That’s all you wanted to ask? Really?” He leaned back as far as the manacles would allow him and gestured with his fingers. “No, it’s not fragging true. I ain’t killed no one in years. And I certainly ain’t murdered no Autobot Wreckers.”   
  
His accent had thickened. It took Blurr a moment or two to pick out what Ricochet meant. Anger spiked from him in waves, as though there was something about this room which made it harder for him to conceal his usually walled off emotions.   
  
He couldn’t lie in here, Blurr thought. At least, not with his field. Not without having to concentrate really, really hard.   
  
Good to know.   
  
“Why would someone try to frame you?” Blurr asked.   
  
“Frag if I know.” Ricochet huffed, and his engine revved noisily. “I’m an easy target? I was here? They wanted to get Prowl and his cronies off their tail? Do I look like a criminal mastermind to you?”  
  
Blurr arched an orbital ridge.   
  
“Never mind. Don’t answer that.” Ricochet sank down in his seat, looking for all the universe as though he were pouting. “It don’t matter. It fragging wasn’t me, which if anyone around here had two chips to rub together, they’d have put that together by now.” He raised his voice and tilted his head back, glaring at the ceiling.   
  
Silence.   
  
“Anyway.” Ricochet shifted back to Blurr and knocked the table with his knuckles. “Why do you care if I’m innocent or not? It’s got nothing to do with you.”   
  
Blurr pressed his lips together. Now probably would be a good time to bring up the sparkling. It was a good enough reason as any and didn’t involve anything as messy as feelings. Not that Blurr had any feelings for Ricochet.   
  
The words were on the tip of his glossa, but just then, the power flickered. In the distance, Blurr heard a low, echoing whump like an explosion or a building collapse. That couldn’t be a coincidence.   
  
Jazz hadn’t told him the particulars of the plan, but Blurr wasn’t stupid. He’d been a Wrecker. He didn’t need a play-by-play to read the situation.   
  
He pretended to be surprised.   
  
Ricochet, however, looked up, and his mouth spread open in a grin. “Well, sounds like there might be a bit of a disturbance outside.”   
  
“Sounds like,” Blurr agreed.   
  
Ricochet tipped his head. “Doesn’t get you out of answering my question though.”   
  
The door clicked open, one of the guards slipping inside, his field surging outward with a harried edge. He strode straight toward Ricochet and gave a tug to the magna-cuffs, perhaps checking that they were secure.   
  
“What’s going on?” Blurr asked.   
  
“Nothing to concern yourself about, sir,” the guard replied in a sharp tone. “Stay here, and you’ll be safe. You may continue to talk.” He pointed at Ricochet firmly. “Behave.”   
  
Ricochet chuckled. “I am on my best behavior, obviously. I don’t know why you’d think I’d be otherwise.” He beamed a disingenuous smile.   
  
He was treated to another warning glare before the guard slipped back out. The lights flickered again, and Blurr swore he could hear shouting and mechs running. Ah, chaos. Definitely sounded like Jazz was to blame.   
  
Ricochet gave a token tug to the manacles, rattling them. “If I wanted to escape, these wouldn’t stop me.” He flashed his visor in a wink. “So let me guess.” He pointed upward with his thumbs. “My brother?”  
  
Blurr frowned and feigned confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His gaze flickered to the vid-recorders. The last thing he needed was for anyone to get a sniff he was involved in the jailbreak.   
  
Ricochet laughed. “Primus, you’re adorable. I can’t wait to get you to a berth again.” His glossa swept over his lips, the darkness in his visor turning hot and hunger.   
  
Blurr’s insides twisted with want.   
  
The door opened again, actually startling Blurr because he hadn’t expected it to be so soon after the last. The guard who slipped inside looked much different than the other before him, though he was still branded an Enforcer and had the telltale marks on his shoulders.   
  
“What’s going on?” Blurr asked, pushing to rise and only getting halfway out of his chair when the guard held up a hand to him.   
  
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he replied, gruff and dismissive. He pulled out some kind of device and waved it over the magnacuffs, freeing Ricochet from his attachment to the table. “Come on. Time to go back to your cell.”   
  
Ricochet didn’t move. “But I’m still having a conversation.” He grinned and tossed a sly wink at Blurr. “My partner here owes me that conjugal visit.”   
  
“I do not,” Blurr hissed. “And we’re not partners.”  
  
The Enforcer wrapped his fingers around Ricochet’s nearest upper arm and tugged him off the chair and out from behind the table. “You’re done.”  
  
Blurr fully stood, planting his hands on the table. “I was promised at least fifteen minutes.”   
  
“We’re on a full security shutdown. That privilege has been revoked. Come back later.” He yanked rudely on Ricochet, dragging him toward the door.   
  
Blurr made a point to memorize his badge number. He would have words. That kind of rough treatment was not necessary.   
  
“It’s really too bad,” Ricochet let himself be dragged, though he tossed a smirk back at Blurr. “Maybe next time we’ll get that frag, eh? I know you’ve been missing my spike.”   
  
Blurr growled and dropped back down his chair. “Frag you.”   
  
Ricochet chuckled. “All in due time.”   
  
The guard sighed a rumbling ventilation. “Someone will come escort you out, sir,” he said, his tone tight and angry. “Let’s go.”   
  
Ricochet clucked his glossa and gave Blurr a little wave before he was pulled out the door. It locked behind them, trapping Blurr in the room. Distantly, alarms shrieked and mechs shouted, but the sirens for a city-wide lockdown hadn’t gone off, which meant it was a localized disturbance.   
  
Blurr sighed and leaned back in his chair, offlining his optics. He didn’t know how long he had to wait, but he hoped it was soon. He’d left Drift in the waiting room -- on Drift’s insistence, not Blurr’s. He hadn’t wanted Blurr to be alone since the “revelation” had left him visibly imbalanced.   
  
There was a killer out there, after all, and Drift hadn’t needed any convincing to know it wasn’t Ricochet. He’d somewhat made himself Blurr’s bodyguard in Ricochet’s absence. Like Jazz, Blurr hadn’t been able to convince Drift otherwise, not even when Ratchet pointed out that Drift had been a Wrecker, too.   
  
“That’s like prey protecting prey,” he’d said with a snort. “Idiots.”   
  
Blurr started to doze by the time the door opened again, and he wasn’t sure if it was because so much time had passed, or because the sparkling was wreaking merry havoc on his energy levels. Again. Either way, he startled awake when the first guard from before came into the room, his gaze landing on Blurr immediately.   
  
“Where is the prisoner?” he demanded, hand falling to the holstered weapon at his side.   
  
Blurr cycled his optics. “A guard came and got him.” He rubbed his face and rose from the chair. He was ready to go home and await news from Jazz. “Are you here to escort me out?”  
  
“Who was it?” the guard demanded, searching through the room as though Ricochet had escaped through a hidden panel.   
  
Blurr frowned. “It’s not my job to keep track of your prisoners. Can I leave now?”  
  
The Enforcer gave a frustrated huff after his futile search produced nothing. The room was small and monitored. There was nowhere Blurr could have stashed Ricochet.   
  
“Let’s go.”   
  
Blurr snorted. “Gladly.”   
  


~

  
  
The place was a slaghole, but Ricochet had slept in worse. He’d made more terrible places his home. He’d holed up in deeper slagpits during the war. Whatever it took to survive.   
  
At least there was more than one room. At least he had a berth and a vidscreen and an energon dispenser. Sure he was about three levels below the surface of Cybertron, and it was dank and dark and eerily quiet with some weird drip he couldn't find no matter how hard he looked. But it was safe and hidden, and only Jazz could find him here.   
  
No one skulked better than a streetrat, that’s for sure. And while Ricochet had more experience living on the streets than his brother, they’d both had their down and outs.   
  
“I’ll be back,” Jazz had promised, and Ricochet had grabbed him and all but eaten his mouth from desperation.   
  
Days with only his hand weren’t pleasant. Especially when guards kept shouting at him to stop being so obscene. Hah. As if they didn’t go home and self-service themselves.   
  
Ricochet was bored. Bored and horny and anxious with worry, not that he’d admit the latter aloud. What if Prowl realized Jazz was to blame? What if he assumed it and called for Jazz’s arrest? How in the frag would Ricochet break Jazz out of jail if he was a fugitive himself?   
  
He gnawed on his talontips, like he told himself he wouldn’t do anymore, and he paced, occasionally pausing to glare at the door. He had no comm signals down here. It was good, because it meant he couldn’t be tracked, but it was bad, because that meant Jazz couldn’t let him know what was going on.   
  
Frag it.   
  
He counted down the minutes. He waited, on bolts and brackets, and when he heard someone fiddling with the door panel, he oscillated between delight that his brother had come back, and suspicion that it was someone else.   
  
He prepared the blaster Jazz had given him just in case.   
  
It flung open with a rattle, a clunk, and a muttered curse in a voice Ricochet was intimately familiar with. He relaxed, stowing his pistol, as Jazz came into view, shaking his hand and sticking a finger into his mouth.   
  
“Well, no one’s gonna get the drop on ya with that damn door,” he muttered.   
  
“Took you long enough,” Ricochet growled as he hooked his hand in Jazz’s collar fairing and yanked his twin into a kiss, tasting spilled energon on his brother’s lip.   
  
Jazz made a muffled sound and melted into the kiss, his mouth opening as he grabbed at Ricochet’s sides, leaning in. His field was a frazzled mess compared to the clinical calm it had been earlier, and Ricochet could taste the frenzied desperation in him.   
  
He broke off the kiss with a bite to Jazz’s lower lip, and felt his twin shiver in response. “Berthroom,” Ricochet growled. “Now.”   
  
Jazz’s visor flickered. His fingers curved against Ricochet’s armor. “Okay,” he said, in that wonderfully obedient tone of his.   
  
Ricochet grinned, molten heat pooling in his belly and further southward, his spike thickening within its sheath.   
  
“Good boy.” He nuzzled his brother, lips running hot and wet over Jazz’s audial. “It’s all your fault, you know. Took too long to get me out, I couldn’t even jerk off without someone yelling at me.” He looked past Jazz, caught sight of Blurr loitering in the doorway, expression unreadable, and smirked. “Ya better fix it.”   
  
Jazz’s fingers dug into his seams, pressing hard against a cable. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I can do that.”   
  
“So I should just go then?” Blurr demanded with an arched orbital ridge, his arms crossing over his chest.   
  
He looked just as delectable as he had across the table in the interview room. Ricochet had wanted to bend him over that table. He wanted it twice as much now. Especially with that edge of jealousy to his tone.   
  
“Close the door. I’m a fugitive after all,” Ricochet drawled, and slid an arm around his brother’s waist, hand skating down to cup Jazz’s aft. “And ya got two choices here, Zippy. Ya can sit around and wait here in the front room, cause I’m fragging someone right now whether you're here or not, or you can have the ride of your life and join us.”   
  
A low keen of want bubbled in Jazz’s intake. He turned his head into Ricochet’s intake and lips and denta scraped over Ricochet’s cables. “Please,” Jazz murmured.   
  
Ricochet grinned and patted Jazz on the aft. “Bro certainly wants it. So it’s up to you.”   
  
Blurr’s gaze darted from him to Jazz and back again. “Seriously?”   
  
“Do I look like I’m jokin’?” Ricochet turned his attention to Jazz, biting on the side of his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. Jazz shuddered and moaned, pressing harder against him, as if trying to climb into his armor.   
  
Ricochet chuckled. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll frag ya stupid.”   
  
“Promise?”   
  
“With all my spike.” Ricochet promised and Jazz’s field flooded over his, thick with the prickling of his volcanic need. Poor thing. He must not have managed to convince Bluestreak in Ricochet’s absence.   
  
Ricochet pulled Jazz into another kiss before he spun Jazz toward the berthroom and gave him a little push. He turned to follow and tossed a look over his shoulder.   
  
“Make yourself at home,” he said with a broad gesture. “Or feel free to join us. Up to you.”   
  
He went into the berthroom without waiting for Blurr to reply, the breadth of Jazz’s need like a pull he couldn’t ignore. Ricochet could sympathize. He had a fairly high interface drive as it was, but he wasn’t like Jazz. He wasn’t - for lack of a better word - needy. Jazz needed someone to stabilize him, and there were many names Ricochet had in the back of his mind of mechs who’d taken advantage of that during the war.   
  
A thought for another time, however.   
  
Jazz flopped on the berth ahead of Ricochet, and he was crawling across it, his aft presenting a delicious target. Ricochet growled and tackled him, the ancient berth giving a warning creak as he pinned Jazz to the berth, grinding hard against his aft. Ricochet latched on the back of Jazz’s neck, denta gnawing at his cables, and Jazz went from taut to limp, his field exploding in a magnified burst of lust.   
  
That complete surrender would never be anything but delicious. Ricochet growled and bit at his neck again, snaking a hand around to probe at Jazz’s array, finding his panels already open, and two fingers sinking into Jazz’s valve with ease. He was dripping, his calipers cycling tight around Ricochet’s fingers.   
  
“Oh, someone missed me,” Ricochet purred against his neck. He licked at the bitemarks and Jazz shivered, moaning as he pushed back at him.   
  
He plunged his fingers deeper, curving them to hook against the bundle of sensors right behind Jazz’s rim. His brother gasped and arched against him, valve spiraling tight and hungry.   
  
“Someone missed me a lot.” Ricochet ground against his aft, enjoying the scrub of it before he pulled back, and Jazz whined his disappointment.   
  
Ricochet patted him on the side. “Turn over, bro. I wanna see how desperate you are.” He slid his knees back a little, making room for Jazz to obey.   
  
And obey he did. Jazz scrambled over onto his back, thighs splaying wide, spike bobbing at the apex of them and his valve bare and rippling. His pleats were swollen, damp with lubricant, and his biolights pulsed in bright intervals. He threw his hands over his head, palms open, and his lips were parted, his glossa sweeping over them.   
  
Ricochet settled between his knees and slid three fingers into his twin, watching as Jazz arched and moaned, his thighs quivering, his armor plates fluttering. More lubricant spilled out, and a bead of pre-come slithered from the tip of his spike. Ricochet palmed his own array with his other hand, his spike extending into his fingers, pressurizing at a rapid pace.   
  
“Hard and fast?” he asked as he thumbed Jazz’s anterior node, first with a hard pressure, then a soft circle. Jazz’s hips arched up and a low growl resonated from his engine.   
  
Jazz fisted the berth covers above his head. “Anyway you’ll give it.” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down hard.   
  
Primus, he was gorgeous. Ricochet wanted to eat him up.   
  
His backplates prickled. On the edge of his field, he tasted bits of arousal, jealousy, curiosity. It radiated against his back.   
  
Ricochet curved his fingers again, playing with Jazz’s sensors, but he glanced over his shoulder. Blurr stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, expression back to unreadable. Save for the hunger. It made his optics glow blue and bright.   
  
“I don’t mindya just watchin’,” Ricochet said as he thumbed Jazz’s node again, making his brother shudder. “But you look more the participatin’ type.”   
  
Blurr’s intake bobbed. His glossa swept across his lips. “Looks like I’d just get in the way.”   
  
“There’s always room for more.” Ricochet chuckled and tilted his head, gesturing for Blurr to join them. “Get over here.”   
  
“Yeah,” Jazz rasped, his tone thick with need and completely wrecked. “Been a while for you ‘n me, right, Blurr? Miss my favorite Racer.”   
  
Blurr snorted and pushed off the doorway, coming further into the room. “Not my fault you’ve been MIA.” He stepped around the berth, into view of Jazz at least, and his optics went even brighter, his field drenching them both in lust.   
  
Ricochet stroked his brother’s anterior nub again, and Jazz shivered, his visor flashing hot-white.   
  
“Come here,” Jazz said. “Wanna frag you.”   
  
Primus. Ricochet swallowed a groan, his processor supplying an image of his brother’s spike vanishing into Blurr’s valve, and Blurr bobbing up and down in front of him, that gorgeous aft of his within grabbing range.   
  
Blurr slanted a gaze at Ricochet. “Feels like I should be asking permission.”   
  
“You’ve already got it, Speedy.” Ricochet withdrew his fingers, much to Jazz’s displeasure, and gave his brother a pat on the valve. “Climb on. He’s a good ride. I promise.”   
  
“I already knew that.” Blurr gave him a sour look -- such a pouty thing, but that was what happened with spoiled mechs used to attention. But he put a knee on the berth, and he leaned down and kissed Jazz, much kinder than Ricochet had been.   
  
Pfft. That was why the two of them would never be anything more than frag buddies. Blurr had no idea what Jazz really needed. Though the two of them together were hot as frag.   
  
Ricochet licked his lips and sat back, content to watch as Blurr’s hand crept up Jazz’s abdomen and snuck under his bumper, teasing the sensitive components hidden behind it. Jazz shuddered and grabbed the back of Blurr’s head to deepen the kiss.   
  
They were a pretty, pretty sight.   
  
Jazz’s spike gave a jerk, and more pre-fluid beaded at the tip. Ricochet decided to be gracious and wrapped a hand around it, giving him a slow, squeezing stroke. Jazz hissed into the kiss, his backstrut arching, and he pulled back with a gasp.   
  
“Please tell me I get ta frag ya,” Jazz said as he bucked up into Ricochet’s hand.   
  
Blurr chuckled. “Only because I like the sound of you begging.” He swung a knee over and straddled Jazz’s hips, Ricochet’s fist bumping along the inside of his thighs.   
  
His damp thighs.   
  
Ricochet’s orbital ridges rose. He tilted his head, getting a peek. Sure enough, Blurr’s panels were already open, his spike extended and his valve bared and dripping. Had the thought of being a part of this triad excited him? How long had he stood there watching, getting wetter or wetter?   
  
Kinky little fragger, wasn’t he?  
  
Blurr bent over to kiss Jazz again, and his aft rose, giving Ricochet a long look at the damp of his valve, the flickering biolights, the swollen rise of his anterior node. Ricochet groaned and slid his fingers over Blurr's slick, curving two into Blurr's valve, producing a shudder from the Racer. He slid his other hand back into Jazz's valve, gathered up lubricant, and slicked it over Jazz's spike.   
  
The two of them deepened their kiss, frames moving together, dances of charge already curling out from beneath their armor. Jazz had his hands hooked in Blurr's armor, and Blurr braced himself on the berth, his thighs trembling.   
  
Ricochet wanted to eat them both.   
  
He held Jazz's spike and rested his lubricant damp hand on Blurr's hip. "Come on, Zippy. Sink down. Take my brother in that pretty valve of yers."   
  
Blurr groaned and canted his hips, knees spreading so he could roll down.   
  
"Slowly now. No need to rush," Ricochet purred, his insides exploding with blistering need, his spike throbbing and jerking, beads of pre-fluid sliding from the tip. "Don't move, bro. Just wait for it."   
  
He relished the way Jazz froze, though his frame trembled from the force of his restraint. His spike throbbed in Ricochet's grip, spilling more pre-come, but he didn't thrust. He held himself, waiting.   
  
Ricochet guided Blurr down and aimed Jazz at his valve, watching him slowly, so slowly, sink into Blurr. They both moaned, frames tensing, Blurr curving forward to kiss Jazz again, sloppy and wet, until Jazz was fully seated and lubricant beaded up around him.   
  
Ricochet groaned at the sight and palmed Blurr's aft, giving it a squeeze. He rose up on his knees, rutting against Blurr's aft, his spikehead grinding over the point where Jazz and Blurr had joined.   
  
"It's like a fantasy come ta life," he gasped, his spike leaving wet smears on the back of Blurr's thighs.   
  
"Can I move?" Jazz asked.   
  
"Just a little," Ricochet said, and held on Blurr's hips, watching as Jazz planted his feet in the berth and started to rock, only half withdrawing from Blurr before he plunged it again, causing a wave of electric fire to dance over Blurr's armor.   
  
Ricochet's hands slid down, his thumbs swiping inward, running over the panel concealing Blurr's port. "What do ya say, Zippy? Ever been fragged in the aft?"   
  
Blurr glanced over his shoulder, over the rise of his kibble. "Of course I have."   
  
Shame. Ricochet would have liked to be the one to break him in. There's nothing quite like the look on a mech's face, the first time he overloaded from port stimulation.   
  
Ricochet smirked at him and pressed in with his thumbs pointedly. "Gonna let me in then?" he asked and swept one hand downward, finger tracing Blurr's rim where it stretched around Jazz's spike, still slowly pumping into him. "Or should we share this? I'm good either way."   
  
"No sharing yet," Blurr said. "I don't have the patience for it." His port panel spiraled open invitingly.  
  
Ricochet's engine purred. He rubbed over the smaller opening with the pad of one thumb, while he slicked his other fingers in Jazz's valve, making his brother arch and sigh. He gave Jazz a light tap on the thigh.   
  
"Be still," he ordered, and brought his lubricant wet thumb to Blurr's port, spreading the slick around before he nudged it inside.   
  
Blurr groaned, backstrut curving, aft pushing back toward Ricochet's digit. His frame accepted Ricochet's thumb easily, and the forefinger he added after. Oh, yes. He had experience in this.   
  
Good.   
  
Ricochet's insides rumbled with need. He hastily spread his own pre-fluid over his spike and rose up on his knees, lining up against Blurr's port. He rubbed the head of his spike against it, teasing Blurr with penetration.   
  
"Slow?" he asked, though he shook from restraint. It'd been a long, lonely incarceration.   
  
"No." Blurr pushed back against him again, a full-frame shudder dancing over his armor. "Now."   
  
Ricochet groaned through his denta and grabbed Blurr's hips, his spikehead pressing firmly against Blurr's lubricant-slick port. Blurr shivered in his grasp, and rocked back, until he popped inside with a moan from both of them. His processor spun at the delicious squeeze, and he had to cycle a steadying ventilation before he could continue, sliding deep into Blurr until he bottomed out, and his spike was swallowed by clenching heat.   
  
His cooling fans cluttered to life, filling the room with noise. Ricochet curved forward, tightening his grip on Blurr's hips. Blurr had sank down, until he was almost entirely laid out on Jazz, his field swirling with arousal and need. Jazz was scorching heat, trembling so hard he rattled, his spike still buried deep in Blurr.   
  
Ricochet was on top. Where he was supposed to be. He set the pace, and his partners could do nothing but hold on for the ride.   
  
He pulled back and thrust in, hard enough to rock Blurr atop Jazz's frame. The both of them groaned, and Jazz bucked up, thrusting in counterpoint to Ricochet. Blurr keened, forehead dipping to land on Jazz's shoulder, his fingers curling into the berthcovers.   
  
"You okay, Speedy?" Ricochet asked as he picked up the pace, his cables tensing and sensornet exploding with pleasure.   
  
"Fine!" Blurr gritted out and rolled his hips, down onto Jazz and back onto Ricochet, rocking back and forth between them. Peeks of his spike grinding down against Jazz's abdomen left streaks of pre-fluid in his wake. "Don't stop."   
  
Primus, could he get any more perfect?   
  
Ricochet smirked.   
  
The rest was ecstasy. He stopped holding back. He plunged into Blurr, deep, driving thrusts that forced him down against Jazz, squeezing out moans and whines from both of them. Jazz's field was a swirl of clawing hunger, and he fell into the pleasure with abandon. Blurr was more restrained, but he melted into Ricochet's thrusts, giving himself over the pleasure like a mech born into it.   
  
His port squeezed taut, not quite the spiraling tightness of a valve, but equally satisfying. He was hot inside, molten, and Ricochet plunged into him, again and again, his own vents coming in sharp bursts, his field filling the room with satisfaction and pleasure.   
  
Jazz overloaded first, buried beneath their frames. Ricochet knew the cadence of his brother's pleasure, knew the exact timbre of his engine, and the pitch it reached when he crested the edge. He bucked up, held Blurr down and overloaded hard, backstrut arching so much he nearly bucked off Blurr. Relief flooded Jazz's field, and the muzzy sense of overload satisfaction.   
  
Ricochet picked up the pace, slamming harder and harder into Blurr, shoving him down to rut his spike against Jazz's belly. Jazz pawed at him with nerveless fingers, sliding into seams and teasing cables, mouthing over Blurr's intake.   
  
Ricochet grinned and curved over Blurr, nearly crushing Jazz under their combined weight, not that his twin would protest at all. If anything, Jazz's field opened up to them more, savoring the press of their frames.   
  
Ricochet snaked a hand beneath Blurr, holding him around the waist in place for a nice, deep grind. He sought out the back of Blurr's neck with lips and denta, catching Jazz's gaze over the rise of Blurr's shoulder. He rolled his hips, thrusting to the hilt every time, and licked and bit at Blurr's neck, all the while holding his brother's gaze.   
  
Mine, Ricochet purred through his field, in a way he knew his twin could read. Both of you. Mine.   
  
Jazz jerked his head in a nod, and his visor dimmed into that cool blue of satisfaction, where he went into his head, to the place that made him sweet and compliant. He tipped his head back, bared his intake, and Ricochet would have bit him, if he could.   
  
That was all right. Blurr was equally delicious, and his neck was for the taking. So Ricochet latched on with his denta, biting down, not deep enough to draw energon, but enough to leave a mark. To restore the ones which had healed since he'd been imprisoned.   
  
Blurr shuddered beneath him. His port rippled around Ricochet, and he dipped his head, as if offering his neck to Ricochet, submitting to him.   
  
Delicious.   
  
Ricochet snapped his hips, burying to the hilt, and bit down at the same time. Blurr keened and shuddered beneath Ricochet, his port clenching down in a telltale rhythm. He overloaded, sparks dancing over his frame, biting against Ricochet's armor. He went limp and pliant, dragging air through his vents in sharp gulps.   
  
It only took a handful of thrusts for Ricochet to follow him over, pulling Blurr hard against him as he spilled deep into Blurr's ports, a week's worth of pent up need spurting out of him. His vision filled with static as the overload sizzled through his lines and his sensory net, his cables tensing and easing all at once.   
  
He chuckled hoarsely against the back of Blurr's neck, glossa lapping at the bite mark he'd left. It seeped sluggishly, but his nanites should get to it soon enough. Ricochet purred his approval, circling his hips as his spike softened in Blurr's aft.   
  
He could easily go for another round.   
  
"Off," Blurr muttered as he shifted beneath Ricochet. "Can't ventilate."   
  
"Racers are so delicate," Ricochet said with a soft laugh. He landed another bite on the back of Blurr's neck before he pushed off and back, sliding out of Blurr with a wet pop.   
  
He sat back on his heels, admiring the slow trickle of transfluid from Blurr's port. He rubbed his thumb over it and the swollen rim, and Blurr shivered, his port twitching against Ricochet's digit. Ricochet grinned, sweeping some of the transfluid up and coating his finger with it before he pushed it into Blurr's aft, giving it a little crook.   
  
Blurr groaned and clenched down on him. "Don't you ever get tired?"   
  
Jazz chuckled a little raspily. "You got no room to talk, Blurr."   
  
"You may have a point." Blurr pushed himself up to hands and knees, Jazz slipping free of his valve and more fluids seeping free. His aft shifted back toward Ricochet, however. "Especially lately."   
  
"Do I get to take credit for that?" Ricochet asked as he slid another finger into Blurr and thrust them slowly, causing Blurr's armor to flutter.   
  
"Partly," Blurr muttered, so quiet Ricochet almost didn't catch it. He rocked back a few more times on Ricochet's fingers before he abruptly pulled away, tipping onto his side on the rickety berth.   
  
Both Jazz and Blurr sprawled on the berth, looking wrecked and delicious. Ricochet absently palmed his repressurizing spike, not sure which of the delectable sights he wanted to ravish again first.   
  
"We should talk," Jazz said as he crossed one arm behind his head, though the other dropped down to his array, lazily stroking his swollen valve. "About what happens next."   
  
Ricochet fluttered his optical visor. "We can do that in the mornin'. I got better things in mind."   
  
Blurr rolled over onto his belly, but there was invitation in the way he pulled up his knee, showing off his still bare array. "As long as I get some recharge eventually."   
  
Ricochet leaned in, one hand sliding up Blurr's nearest thigh while the other curved around his brother's knee. "Eventually."  
  


***

  
  
 


	9. Chapter 9

Bluestreak did not like the underlevels. They were dark and cramped and smelled of ancient, dead things. It was a honeycomb maze of dead ends, rusted walkways, and collapsed tunnels. There was too much interference from various electrical devices left to whirr and click and run with no one to care about their maintenance for his sensory panels to guide him.   
  
He was left with the sloppily drawn map, courtesy of Jazz, with all its spec ops shorthand directions, and the hope that he’d find Jazz and Ricochet’s lair before he got lost. After all, there was no comming for help down here. They were far too deep for a signal to make it out.   
  
He stepped in something tacky and slick and had to catch himself before he fell. He ducked under a nest of frayed wires, hanging down from the ceiling like grasping hands. He skirted over a very narrow ledge which hung over a dark and endless abyss.   
  
He started to wonder if Jazz had given him the complicated directions on purpose.   
  
But the directions held true, and soon enough, he hopped over a narrow pitfall and shuffled down a slightly wider corridor. He found the door hidden behind a very convincing pile of rubble and debris. Honestly, he wouldn’t have found it if he hadn’t known to look for it.   
  
He rapped on the door and when he didn’t get a response, plugged in the complicated code to the electronic door panel which looked as if it might explode at a moment’s notice. Knowing Jazz, it probably would. Extra protection and all that.   
  
The door creaked open, and Bluestreak took that to mean he’d put in the code correctly, since he didn’t explode in a fiery death. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and heard the lock snick back into place. There wasn’t much to the place, a cramped main room and two adjacent doors, one wide open and revealing a washrack, the other ajar, through which recognizable sounds floated free.   
  
Bluestreak was no saint. His insides twisted with heat. He crept closer, hovered near the open doorway, and listened. Gasps and moans, the slick noise of arrays meeting, through the crack he could see flashes of biolights and armor.   
  
Jazz and Ricochet were fragging. He could hear Jazz begging and Ricochet murmuring commands and praise in equal measure. Jazz’s engine reached a delicious pitch, and Bluestreak shivered, processor supplying an image of what Jazz’s face must have looked like, wracked with pleasure.   
  
Bluestreak only let himself listen for a few minutes more, ruminating on possibilities and potentials, before he pulled away, back to the rickety couch. He gave it a consideration and detoured to the chair-less table. He pulled out his datapads and set them on the table, arranging the new data he’d composed in a way that made the most sense.   
  
He distracted himself with the details, the calculations, the tidbits of information he gathered up in his processor, rolled around, played mix and match.   
  
The door eventually creaked open fully, and Bluestreak turned to look as Ricochet and Jazz both emerged, somewhat tidied, though lubricant still glistened across Ricochet's groin.   
  
"We have a visitor," Ricochet drawled as he reached behind Jazz and gave his aft a squeeze. "I think it's for you, bro."   
  
Jazz swung an elbow into his side. "Go get washed up."   
  
Ricochet's grin wavered between mocking and insincere. "If you say so. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He tipped his head at Bluestreak. "Good seein' ya, kid."   
  
"I'm older than I look," Bluestreak pointed out.   
  
"Yeah. I know."   
  
Ricochet vanished into the washrack and no sooner had the spray started did Bluestreak pick up the faint sound of out-of-tune singing. Not a care in the world, that one. How did he live like that?   
  
"Glad you finally used that code I sent ya," Jazz said, drawing Bluestreak's attention back. He reached into a freestanding closet and pulled out three folded chairs, setting them around the table. "What news you got?"   
  
"Prowl's furious. I had to lie to him, Jazz."   
  
Jazz rolled his shoulders. "He should be used to getting lied to by now. If it makes ya feel better, blame it all on me."   
  
"I don't have to. He'll forgive me." Bluestreak took one of the chairs, though he sat gingerly, just in case it decided not to hold his weight. "I have information on the case for you." He gestured to the datapads. "Check it out."   
  
"Baby Blue, you are amazin'." Jazz hopped into one of the chairs, scooting it closer to the table. "What ya got for me?"   
  
Bluestreak's face heated. He coughed a ventilation. "Hopefully, something that will help. I figured out that he's going after Wreckers who are happy."   
  
"What?"   
  
"Think about it." Bluestreak pulled up the datapads and showed Jazz the conjunx announcement for Drift and Ratchet's engagement. He tapped pointedly at the date. "The killings started immediately after this, didn't they?"   
  
"Could be a coincidence."   
  
"I don't think so. Something had to set him off." Bluestreak switched to another datapad, the one listing all of those murdered and the one survivor. "Every one of these, with the exception of Springer, has been happy in some way or another. Visibly happy. I'm talking the kind of happy that people notice. I'll bet you my wages for the month that's why Whirl and Roadbuster haven't been attacked yet and won't ever be."   
  
Jazz frowned, but peered at the datapad, realization unfurling in his field. "Because Roadbuster's been under psychiatric care after his breakdown, and Whirl's been in and out of jail for disturbing the peace."   
  
"Right."   
  
Jazz rapped his fingers on another datapad, reviewing the contents again. "So we've established how he's pickin' them. Now we need ta know why. What's the motive?"   
  
"It's not a Decepticon," Bluestreak murmured.   
  
"Yeah, I figured. We've all been thinkin' that. Prowl's the only one who's been hopin' otherwise." Jazz sighed and sank down into the chair, laying his datapad down in front of him. He braced his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. "Someone the Wreckers betrayed. Someone they failed. Someone they hurt."   
  
The door to the washrack slid open in a plume of steam, releasing a freshly washed Ricochet to the room at large. "Springer's a clue," he said as he wiped the towel over his arm, wicking away the last bits of solvent. "He's the one who doesn't fit the pattern."   
  
"Because he survived?" Bluestreak asked. He didn't bother to ask how Ricochet knew what they were discussing. He'd been around Sunstreaker and Sideswipe long enough.   
  
"Because he wasn't happy." Ricochet strutted toward the table and came up behind Jazz, leaning against his back and resting his chin on the top of Jazz's head. He gave Bluestreak a look that was almost challenging. "I seem to remember some pretty nasty rumors a few months back."   
  
Bluestreak held Ricochet's gaze and curved his lips in a smile. "I didn't hear them."   
  
"That's cause you don't always have the right audials, Blue." Jazz's field flooded with warmth as he leaned back into Ricochet's embrace. "This was political mess and Prowl subterfuge tryin' to bury it. Surprised you even heard it, bro."   
  
"I have my ways." Ricochet chuckled and slid a hand down Jazz's shoulder, over his bumper, fingers cupping a headlight. "Rumor has it the reason he stepped down from the Wreckers, disbandment or not, is because he's secretly part-Decepticon."   
  
Bluestreak pulled out a chair and sat. "That's ridiculous."   
  
"Only because it's true." Jazz pressed his fingertips to his lips. "The public doesn't know that tidbit. And it ain't my place to spread Springer's business, but yeah. You're right, bro. He wasn't happy."   
  
"So why break the pattern?" Ricochet turned his head, gave a lick to Jazz's sensory horn before he pinned it between his denta. "What makes Springer different?"   
  
Bluestreak grabbed the Wrecker roster again, scanning through it.   
  
"Ric, stop," Jazz murmured, swinging an elbow back at his brother even as he shivered, his field pulsing with want. "I'm tryin' to concentrate."   
  
"He was the commander of the unit at the time," Bluestreak realized aloud, his fingers drawing connecting patterns between names. "Which doesn't help much because he's been commander of the Wreckers for a large portion of their tenure."   
  
"Narrows down the field though, doesn't it?" Ricochet gave his brother's horn another bite before he backed up, one hand lingering possessively on a headlight. "Missions Springer led which contained all or at least some of the ones killed."   
  
Bluestreak was already nodding and inputting an algorithm to narrow it down. He didn't bother to ask why the perpetrator would kill those he wasn't personally angry with. Hatred and loathing was rarely logical, and if he truly was former spec ops like they thought, he would know the value of misdirection and muddying the patterns.   
  
"If he was smart, he'd have gone after Impactor and Ultra Magnus, too, just to obscure his motives," Ricochet said as he rubbed his fingers over Jazz's headlight, and Jazz’s armor shuddered in obvious arousal. "But Ultra Magnus is almost impossible to get to and Impactor hasn't been seen in decades."  
  
"But why pin it on you?" Bluestreak asked as the algorithm started to run. It would take a minute at most, thanks to Prowl’s careful data collation, but it gave him time to talk.   
  
Ricochet shrugged and finally left Jazz be after another elbow jab to the midsection. "Easy, convenient target. I'm a former 'Con. I got the skills to match. It would distract Jazz. Pretty brilliant if ya ask me." He dragged over another chair and slouched into the rickety, rusted seat.   
  
Well, he wasn't wrong.   
  
"How're you so good at this anyway, Blue?" Jazz asked as he idly toyed with a datapad, his tone suggesting nonchalance but his frame language betraying otherwise. "Your file doesn't say you used to be investigative."   
  
"It wouldn't." Bluestreak pressed his lips together, age-old feelings of being inadequate and worthless bubbling up inside his spark. "My application was denied five times in a row which meant--"  
  
"You'd exceeded the number of tries," Ricochet finished for him.   
  
Bluestreak nodded slowly. "I don't process fast enough." He folded his arms under his bumper, sat back in his chair. "I like puzzles. Always have. Wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my functioning solving them. But I wasn't quick enough. Couldn't pass the exams within the allotted time."   
  
"But you passed," Ricochet said.   
  
"Every time. Just not quick enough." Bluestreak cycled a ventilation. "Prowl knew. He had me help out on cases sometimes, feeding me data and letting me mull it over. I don't process... laterally. I process in circles. It's why I talk so much. It takes forever to get to a point."   
  
His datapad beeped as the algorithm finished, and Bluestreak picked it up, skimming through the results. "None of them served at all the same time. They've served in batches, but there are still at least over a hundred missions to sift through."   
  
"It's a start," Jazz said, and leaned across the table. "Can I see?"   
  
Bluestreak handed it over. He snagged a different datapad, the one detailing the various murders and their modus operandi. There had to be something here, some clue about the perpetrator, that could help narrow it down.   
  
He never killed exactly the same way twice. Why? Was it planned? Was it opportunity? Was it because he wanted to muddy the data? Was it because he could?   
  
"Blurr's on the list," Jazz pointed out as he poked his brother in the side. "Looks like he's still a target."   
  
Ricochet chuffed. "Why should I care?"   
  
"No reason." Jazz smirked.   
  
Bluestreak couldn't group the killings by type, but perhaps by severity? Or at least, by general methods. Explosive devices, blaster, or vibroknife. Some were more clinical, like executions, others were messy and violent, as if the perpetrator had wanted to make it last, to take his time. He'd used inhibitor clamps on a couple of the Wreckers to keep them from fighting back -- like Springer.   
  
The brutal ones. They were a clue, too. They were far more personal.   
  
Bluestreak brought those names up. There were only two. He transmitted those specifications to Jazz's datapad to narrow down the results further, to include only those mission reports with Springer and those two mechs at the very least.   
  
Jazz's datapad chimed as it received the data. "What's this?"   
  
"A hunch." Bluestreak continued to skim his own datapad. "Let me know what those filters bring up for you."   
  
"Ten missions," Jazz answered in a flash. He sat up a little straighter, and a genuine smile curled his lips. "Now we're getting somewhere."   
  
"Let me see."   
  
Jazz handed the datapad over to Ricochet, whose visor narrowed and his frown grew darker. "Blurr's designation is on all these mission reports. So's Whirl's."   
  
"Anyone else alive we can talk to?" Bluestreak asked. "Or I guess just me since the both of you are wanted fugitives."  
  
"Here." Ricochet tapped Jazz in the shoulder and smirked. "Got it down to three. Ya'll forgot to filter it by missions involving Autobot casualties."   
  
Jazz flickered his visor. "That's assuming our Autobot perpetrator didn't have family, friend, or lover in the Decepticons."   
  
"Not everyone is as liberal as us, spark of my spark." Ricochet dragged a finger down the side of Jazz's intake, making him visibly shiver. "But if it means that much to ya, add 'em back in if these three missions don't pan out."   
  
"Fair enough." Bluestreak watched the path of Ricochet's finger, and the way Jazz's visor dimmed to a heated hue, the way his field flickered and opened up to his brother's caresses.   
  
Bluestreak wanted to claim him so badly it hurt.   
  
Ricochet caught him looking and leaned in closer to Jazz, slinging an arm over his brother's shoulder and cupping the same headlight from before. "You could always join us," he said with a long, lingering look up and down at Bluestreak. "I've been wondering what those wings of yours taste like."   
  
"As much as I appreciate the offer, you and I would only clash." Bluestreak lifted his chin and his orbital ridges. "I don't think you take orders that well, and I'm only in the habit of giving them."   
  
Ricochet barked a laugh. "Well, you're not wrong there." He gave a pointed flick to Jazz's headlight. "You can play with Jazz if ya want. He obeys orders really well."   
  
Jazz spat something at Ricochet in a language Bluestreak didn't know, and he swatted his brother's hand away. He glared and said something else, causing Ricochet's optical visor to narrow and his mouth to form a thin line. He leaned out of Jazz's personal space and said something in a low, careful voice.   
  
Jazz's engine growled. He bared his denta, and Ricochet snatched at him, gripping his chin and forcing Jazz's attention on him. He spoke again in that odd language, his tone a warning or chastisement.   
  
Jazz flinched.   
  
Bluestreak tensed. He wondered if he should intervene.   
  
Jazz's head drifted down, just a little, in Ricochet's grip. It seemed like submission, and maybe Ricochet took it as one because he smirked broad enough to bare his denta. He swept his thumb over Jazz's bottom lip before he let go and sat back.   
  
Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. "Did I miss something?"   
  
"Just a brotherly spat." Ricochet's grin broadened even more, and he went lazy in his chair. "So what's next?"   
  
“Next we talk to anyone on that list who’s still alive, see what they can tell us about those missions.” Jazz’s arms folded under his bumper, but his tone was casual. Not that Bluestreak believed it for a moment. “Can you get in to see Whirl?”   
  
Bluestreak nodded. “I’m sure Prowl will let me, yeah.”   
  
“Good. Blurr’s supposed to come by later, we’ll ask him then.” Jazz’s visor shifted, him cutting a glance at Ricochet. “We gotta find somethin’. Mechs are still dyin’, and I’m useless while I’m on the run.”   
  
“We’ll figure this out. I promise.” Bluestreak stood, sensing the thickness of tension in the air, his sensory panels starting to twitch.   
  
Ricochet and Jazz needed to have a talk apparently, one without Bluestreak sitting there, obviously the focus of the discussion.   
  
“I’ll come back when I have something concrete.”   
  
“Good.” Ricochet gave him a pointed look, though his hand went back to lingering against the nape of Jazz’s neck. “We need to have a conversation. When this is over, o’ course.” His tone was thick, heavy with meaning.   
  
Jazz shivered.   
  
Bluestreak met his gaze with an equally heavy, meaningful one of his own. “Yeah, we do.”   
  
Business first.   
  
Personal later.   
  


~

  
  
“It’s pretty obvious Jazz is behind the escape, though we’ve yet to determine who was helping him, how he broke into holding, and how he walked out with Ricochet without anyone noticing or attempting to stop him,” Springarm recited.   
  
Prowl was only marginally listening. “Jazz is too familiar with our methods, our mechs, and our facilities. His success was inevitable.”   
  
Springarm’s armor creaked as he shifted his weight. “With all due respect, sir, you sound like you expected this to happen.”   
  
“It was one of the outcomes I hypothesized, yes. I have learned not to underestimate Jazz’s boldness.” Prowl shifted his attention as one of his datapads beeped, indicating a new transfer of information. Ah, the datapad he’d given Bluestreak was being accessed and updated.   
  
Interesting.   
  
He put down the monthly budget estimates for the security department and picked up the datapad instead -- the one linked to Bluestreak’s. They were exact duplicates, and whatever Bluestreak did on his, transferred to Prowl’s as soon as it pinged on an open transmission line.   
  
“If you suspected it, why not assign more guards to Ricochet? You had him in minimum security holding. He probably would have broken out himself if Jazz hadn’t done it first,” Springer asked, and a note of irritation thickened his tone.   
  
Oh, what’s this? An actual suspect list? Well, weren’t they busy little investigators.   
  
“There are only a few powerful motivators in the universe, Springarm. Love is one of them, and it makes us reckless.” Prowl glanced up at the Enforcer captain, whose field flicked around him in aggravated waves. “You have a partner, yes?”   
  
Springarm coughed, and his field flushed with embarrassment. Springarm was a good Enforcer, but he would have made a terrible agent. He couldn’t hide his emotions if his spark depended on it.   
  
“Yes, sir. For three years now.”   
  
Prowl dropped his attention back to his datapad. “And you know what you’d do for him, don’t you?”   
  
“I-I don’t think--”  
  
“It’s alright. I’m not asking you to commit treason, and I’m not asking to test your loyalty, I’m simply making a point.”   
  
His words didn’t soothe. Springarm’s armor fluttered, and his field settled around him in uneasy waves now.   
  
Prowl skimmed the data Bluestreak’s pad provided him, a smile threatening to curve his lips. This was what he’d call progress. From hundreds of possibilities, to a means to make a suspect list. Amazing what a little motivation could do.   
  
“I apologize for what appears to be a charade, captain, but I assure you it was necessary.” Prowl made a notation and sent a quick message to the commander of Whirl’s jail sector, allowing Bluestreak whatever access he desired. “In the end, it will save lives.”   
  
“But not reputations.”   
  
Prowl cycled his optics and looked up. Springarm wouldn’t meet his gaze, and almost seemed embarrassed for his outburst.   
  
Ah. So that was the core of the issue, was it?  
  
“Your mechs will receive no reprimands or punishments for this,” Prowl said as he dropped his attention back to the datapad. With any luck, no more lives would be lost. “They performed admirably and as expected. Once it is all settled, I will instruct Jazz to help you find the holes in your security.”   
  
Silence.   
  
Quiet until the resentment seethed in an undercurrent of Springarm’s field.   
  
“I presume you don’t want me to finish the investigation into Ricochet’s escape then?”   
  
“It won’t be necessary,” Prowl confirmed. He saved the new data and set it aside, returning to his original work. It was enough to know progress was being made. “Thank you, Springarm. That will be all.”   
  
The captain saluted and let himself out of Prowl’s office, taking his overly expressive field with him. Prowl ex-vented with relief. He only had so much tolerance for wild fields.   
  
He probably should have warned Springarm to turn a blind optic to Ricochet or Jazz if they happened to appear in public, but it wasn’t necessary. Both of them were too skilled to be caught especially by what constituted the Autobot Enforcers. It was a good thing.   
  
After all, Prowl needed them both out of jail and free to search for the serial murderer. He didn’t want to see any more dead Wreckers.   
  
No matter what it took.   
  


****


	10. Chapter 10

Life moved on.   
  
Not that there wasn't an uproar.   
  
Ricochet's disappearance and escape made it onto the evening news. Prowl had ensured the media was not specific as to the reasons behind his arrest, which caused a greater outrage from the Decepticons, especially Starscream who was demanding an explanation. At least the surviving Wreckers went back to being cautious, and their guards stuck around them, just in case.   
  
Politically, the situation was a powder keg waiting to explode. It wasn't, however, any of Blurr's business.   
  
He had a bar to run.   
  
He went back to New Maccadam’s, and he went back to work, and he played dumb when anyone came by asking questions. Drift started to park himself on the end of the bar when he knew Blurr was working, nominating himself to take Ricochet's place apparently. Whether or not he was fully aware of Blurr's part in Ricochet's escape, Blurr didn't know.   
  
He chose not to bring it up.   
  
He worked. He went home. Sometimes, Jazz came for him and he was able to sneak down to where Jazz and Ricochet were hiding out, and they bent their heads together over the evidence to try and find the real murderer.   
  
Ricochet's innocence should have been easy to prove.   
  
Except within a week of his escape, another Wrecker was murdered. Fractal died in a fiery explosion, his apartment apparently rigged to ignite as soon as he came home. Another Autobot -- his partner -- died in the blast.   
  
The mechhunt for Ricochet became even fiercer.   
  
“I don’t know how many times I can tell you the same thing,” Blurr said as he cleaned a stack of dirty cubes, if only to give his hands something to do while Springarm stared him down, his lack of expression as unnerving now as it was the last two times he came to ask ‘a few questions.’   
  
“I have no idea where Jazz or Ricochet are. I had nothing to do with his break out. I’m as shocked as anyone else, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a Wrecker, too. And he reprogrammed my security system.” Blurr added a scowl for good measure.   
  
“Right.” Springarm’s tone was so flat, Blurr could have held a race on it. “Curious, then, that he hasn’t taken advantage of that knowledge to kill you next.”   
  
Blurr narrowed his optics. “Is that a threat? Because it sounds like one.”  
  
“Of course not. I was making an observation.” Springarm pulled out a datapad and made some kind of notation before he tucked it away. “Thank you for your cooperation in this investigation. If I have any further questions, I know where to find you.”   
  
Blurr scowled at him. “Yeah. Running my bar.”   
  
Springarm nodded with something that only faintly resembled respect. He spun on a heelstrut and strode out of the bar, Blurr glaring holes between his shoulder tires for his entire exit.   
  
Aft.   
  
Once he’d gone, Blurr left the dirty cubes alone and went looking for someone to serve. Not that he had many customers since the Enforcers had come to New Maccadam’s a week ago, arresting Ricochet and bringing Blurr in for questioning. It had been busy at first, according to Bluestreak and Riptide. Mechs had come by for the sheer curiosity of it.   
  
After Ricochet’s escape, however, New Maccadam’s was avoided by the general public. Maybe they feared getting swept up in the investigation or being implicated. Springarm’s frequent visits for “follow-up questioning” didn’t help.   
  
Blurr was not amused. His income suffered, and he still had the possibility of a Wrecker-hating assassin trying to stab, shoot, or explode his aft.   
  
“So you don’t know anything?” Drift asked as Blurr wandered to the end of the bar where Drift had taken up perch, appointing himself Blurr’s guardian for the evening, though he was equally at risk of attack.   
  
“Why would I?” Blurr asked. He reached under the bar and pulled out the box of crumbled rust treats, refilling the bowl in front of Drift.   
  
A grin thanked him. “No reason.” Drift’s orbital ridges rose pointedly. He grabbed a handful of the crisps. “You tell Ricochet about the sparkling before he, you know, escaped?”   
  
“No.” Blurr capped the box and put it back. He glanced through the bar, counting patrons.   
  
“Why not?”   
  
Blurr didn’t have a good answer for that. He counted seven customers, most of whom were regulars, only one of whom he didn’t recognize.   
  
“Because it doesn’t matter if he knows or not. I’m keeping it.”   
  
“You don’t think he has a right to know?” Drift asked, and something in the question felt needling.   
  
Blurr bristled without knowing why. “I think I’m going to close early tonight,” he said instead. “You should go home to Ratchet.”   
  
Drift held up his hands, leaning back from the counter. “Sure you don’t want me to watch your back?”   
  
“I can take care of myself.” As he’d told Jazz from the beginning, so really, this was all Jazz’s fault.   
  
“Of course you can.” Drift grinned and saluted him with a cube. “We’re Wreckers.”   
  
Yes, they were.   
  


~

  
  
Blurr wouldn’t admit to anyone, but Springarm made him twitchy, made him look over his shoulder, taking roundabout routes, and sticking to the shadows. He utilized skills he’d thought he’d forgotten, dipping into an underlevel access far from his usual one, and doubling back on himself just to throw off anyone trailing him.   
  
He should have gone home. It would have been wiser.   
  
He ended up at Jazz and Ricochet’s safehouse instead. He only got lost once, and he tapped the door to announce himself. Ricochet answered, and he gave Blurr a grin that could best be described as sleazy.   
  
“Don’t say anything,” Blurr said as he pushed his way inside and scanned the interior. Washrack door open, washrack empty. Berthroom door open, berthroom empty. “Where’s Jazz?”   
  
“Out.” The door closed and locked. Footsteps barely scuffed the floor before Ricochet’s heat pressed against Blurr’s back, and his ex-vents teased Blurr’s audial. “Why? You wantin’ another twin sandwich?”   
  
Blurr licked his lips. “Not this time.” It had been amazing. It had been processor-blowing. It had been intense. And he didn’t want to wait for Jazz to return to repeat it.   
  
He needed it now.   
  
Hands settled on Blurr’s shoulders, sliding agonizingly slow down his arms. “Jazz’s gonna be jealous that ya just want me,” Ricochet purred as he ex-vented hot and wet over Blurr’s audial. “Maybe I should save him a vid.”   
  
“Or maybe you should stop slagging around and just frag me already,” Blurr growled, though it threatened to devolve into a purr when Ricochet nipped his audial.   
  
Ricochet chuckled on the edge of a growl and rocked against Blurr’s aft, his field dragging heavy against Blurr’s. “I can definitely do that, Speedy.”   
  
Blurr growled. “Stop calling me that,” he said, and swung an elbow around, slamming it into Ricochet’s abdomen.   
  
Ricochet grunted, and backed off, giving Blurr enough room to slip out of his reach. Not with intent to escape, but heading directly toward the berthroom. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Ricochet was following him, a hunger building in his visor.   
  
The sight of it made Blurr shudder. His valve clenched on nothing, already lubricating, spike starting to pressurize behind his panel. Yes, this was what he wanted. Pleasure. Meaningless. Something that didn’t matter.   
  
The berthroom seemed smaller somehow, even though Jazz wasn’t here this time. It reeked of interfacing, the covers rumpled and twisted. The mental image of Jazz and Ricochet tangled together on the mattress assailed Blurr, and he shivered at the memory of being pressed between them. It sent a hot wave of desire through his frame.   
  
“Gettin’ right to it?” Ricochet asked as he followed Blurr inside, giving the door a half-hearted push toward closing. “I’m down with that.”   
  
“Good.” Blurr turned, snagged Ricochet by the arm and swung him toward the berth. Something he probably shouldn’t have been able to do, but Ricochet humored him, landing on his aft on the berth with a rickety bounce. “Open up.”   
  
An orbital ridge arched as Ricochet pulled himself completely onto the berth, hands braced behind him. He tilted his head. “Plan to frag me? Is that it?”   
  
Blurr clambered onto the berth after him, straddling his thighs. “Something like that. Open.” He dragged his fingers over Ricochet’s panel, the heat of him pushing against Blurr’s derma.   
  
Amusement curved Ricochet's lips. "Sure. I'll go with that." His panel spiraled open, spike jutting out, and he reached toward it.   
  
Blurr flicked his hand away. "No," he said, and bent forward, wrapping his lips around the head of Ricochet's spike, moaning as the taste of Ricochet spilled over his glossa. Primus, he'd forgotten how much he loved to suck spike, though he hadn't wanted to let Ricochet know that.   
  
Fragger was arrogant enough already.   
  
Ricochet's vents stuttered. His hips pushed upward before Blurr grabbed them and shoved down, sliding his lips further onto Ricochet's spike, a pulse of arousal throbbing on his glossa.   
  
"Okay. Yeah. This is good, too," Ricochet groaned and slid a hand around Blurr's head, fingertips stroking his crest. "For a start. Got better ideas than finishin' down yer intake though."   
  
Blurr swallowed around him twice, dragging a hitched vent from Ricochet, before he let Ricochet fall from his mouth, spike glossy with his oral lubricant. "It's not up to you." He licked his lips.   
  
"Is that right?" Ricochet folded his arms behind his head, lips twisted in a smirk. "Well then. Why don't you show me what it is you want, Zippy? Since I'm just a spike to you."   
  
"Don't act offended." Blurr curved his fingers around Ricochet's spike, giving him three squeezing strokes, pulling out a bead of pre-fluid that he immediately lapped up.   
  
Ricochet's visor brightened with arousal. His field throbbed, heavy and full, blanketing Blurr in it. "Maybe I am."   
  
Blurr snorted and rose up, sliding forward, his thighs bracketing Ricochet's spike. "Offended enough for me to leave?" He reached down, aimed Ricochet's spike at his valve, rubbing the head of it against the swollen pleats. Lubricant dripped steadily, his vents coming in sharp pants. "Or do you want me?"   
  
"You're playin' a dangerous game, Speedy." Ricochet's engine growled, his field growing heavier and hotter. "Ya might not like what ya provoke."   
  
Blurr smirked and dropped down, taking Ricochet's spike to the hilt, his internal nodes lighting up with pleasure as he bottomed out. He shuddered, even as he lengthened his smirk. "Oh?" he said, cocking an orbital ridge. "Try me."   
  
"Don't say I didn't warn ya," Ricochet said, his vocals a deep, resonant rumble as he snatched Blurr by the hips and abruptly rolled them, knees digging into the berth as he grabbed and thrust, harsh and deep.   
  
Blurr's backstrut arched, sparks dancing behind his optics as Ricochet's spike ground against his ceiling node, sending a sharp stab of ecstasy through his frame. Fire licked up his backstrut, and Blurr groaned, feet scrabbling at the berth to gain purchase, but Ricochet manipulated his frame as though he weighed nothing, pushing and yanking Blurr onto his spike without pause.   
  
"Gah!" Blurr hissed, and his spike jutted free in a snap. He reached down to wrap his fingers around it, but Ricochet smacked his hand aside.   
  
"Nope. Ya asked for it," Ricochet growled, his visor flaring even brighter.   
  
Blurr squirmed, tried to kick at him. "Frag you!" he snarled.   
  
Ricochet laughed and pulled out, his talons sinking into Blurr's hips. "You've got that backwards, I think," he said, and Blurr's world turned upside down again, his processor spinning and his array throbbing with heat.   
  
He scrabbled to get his hands beneath him as his face smacked into the berth. He sucked in the scent of interfacing, transfluid, lubricant, and then Ricochet surged inside him again, no preamble, nothing gentle about the way he slammed into Blurr, filling him to the hilt.   
  
Blurr groaned and fisted the berth covers, digging his knees into the berth to push back into Ricochet's thrusts. The other mech chuckled darkly and bent over him, blanketing Blurr in his weight, denta latching on the back of Blurr's neck. Ricochet growled, the vibrations echoing through Blurr's sensornet. His hips snapped forward, driving into Blurr without pause, like an animal in rut.   
  
It was perfect.   
  
Blurr panted, dragging in hot ventilations, a dull ache spreading out from the bite and the sharp stab of Ricochet's talons on his hips. He shoved back into each thrust, taking the slams on his sensory nodes, charge erupting in fierce, bursting waves through his array.   
  
Overload crackled over him between one ventilation and the next. Blurr moaned, spike spurting onto the berth beneath him, valve cycling down. He shook as the charge spilled out over his frame in bright bursts of blue.   
  
Ricochet didn't pause.   
  
"I'm not done with you," he growled into Blurr's audial.   
  
"Good," Blurr gasped out.  
  
Ricochet laughed and slammed into him all the harder. His denta left scrapes on Blurr's intake cables. "Mine," he said.   
  
And Blurr, for the life of him, couldn't think of a reason to argue otherwise.   
  


~

  
  
Hiding in plain sight was a lot easier than it seemed.   
  
Mechs didn’t pay that much attention to other mechs, especially nowadays, in this post-war, mostly peacetime. If you looked like you belonged, then you belonged. If you didn’t stand out, then no one noticed you.   
  
If you were plain, if you were expected to be there, you might as well be another piece of the scenery.   
  
Jazz knew this all too well.   
  
He swapped out his visor and added a set of false kibble to his face. He reprogrammed his nanites from black and white, to black all over, and tromped through a construction zone to dirty his feet with weld ash, and scrape his armor on rusted bits of old buildings. He walked with a hunch, he worsened his accent, and to everyone else, he was just a tired Cybertronian finally come home, happy to rebuild his planet any way he could.   
  
He sat in a booth in New Maccadam’s with no one the wiser. He cupped a cube of engex and sipped it slowly, carefully, like he wanted to savor it. He watched Springarm come into the bar, ask Bluestreak a few questions, before leaving disappointed. He watched Springarm survey New Maccadam’s, look right at Jazz, then turn around and leave.   
  
Pfft.   
  
Civilian Enforcers were too easy.   
  
Well, most of them anyway.   
  
“I don’t think this is wise,” Bluestreak said as he came by, swapping Jazz’s empty cube for a plate of candied energon jellies. Jazz would make sure to take some back to Ricochet or his brother might actually murder him for real. “They’re going to catch you.”   
  
Jazz snorted. “I ain’t never been caught, Baby Blue. It ain’t about to start now.” He dragged the plate over, noisily chewing on a candy like he’d never been taught manners, like he was the average blue-collar worker who didn’t bother with them. “You seen Sandstorm tonight?”   
  
Bluestreak shook his head. “Haven’t seen a lot of people. Business is down.”   
  
“Damn. The bar’s about the only place a stranger can casually walk up to another person without suspicion.” Jazz frowned and gnawed on the edge of the cube. “You might have to track him down for a talk yourself. What about Mirage?”   
  
Bluestreak faked a gasp, his optics sparkling. “Is that you looking to ask someone for help? Because that’s what it sounds like.”   
  
Jazz scowled. “No. That’s me looking for a frag, since I know you aren’t going to offer, and Blurr’s got my brother wrapped around his finger.”   
  
“Ah. Well, I haven’t seen Mirage. You know New Maccadam’s isn’t his usual scene.”   
  
Bluestreak half-turned, glanced toward the bar, but of the customers in here, no one seemed like they wanted a drink. Jazz hadn’t heard the door ding since Springarm left either. Business really was taking a hit.   
  
Jazz grumbled and shoved another chew into his mouth. “You’re not being helpful at all.”   
  
“I’m precisely as helpful as I want to be.” Bluestreak’s sensory panels twitched, betraying an irritation for the first time Jazz could remember. “And if you’re trying to provoke me, you’ll have to try harder. More energon, sir?”   
  
Jazz leaned back into a slouch. “Maybe later.” He affected the expression of a tired mech who just wanted to go home, crawl into his berth, so he could start the day all over again. Nope. No disguised spies here, no sir.   
  
“I’ll come back and check on you.” Bluestreak gave him a bartender’s smile and wandered away.   
  
Jazz watched his aft. He wished he could do more than look at it. He wished he understood what Bluestreak wanted from him.   
  
He wished for a lot of things.   
  
He supposed he wouldn’t seek out Mirage after all.   
  


***


	11. Chapter 11

Prowl missed the war. 

Not often and not always, but there were times, when staring at his stacks of datawork and contemplating the confusing tangles of political affiliations, he missed the simplicity of the war. Autobots versus Decepticons. Clearly defined enemies. Easy to understand parameters. Fewer gray areas. 

Lesser likelihood of being questioned by mechs who had no idea what his job really entailed or even how to do it, but thought they knew better nonetheless. 

Prowl sighed and scrubbed his forehead. He was tired. He hadn't recharged properly in days. There was an ache behind his left optic, and that ache was named Jazz. Why couldn't that idiot ever let anything be simple? 

His door burst open. Prowl prepared a scowl, expecting it to be Jazz -- though that unworthy hadn't been seen since he broke his brother out of the holding cell. Prowl was sure Jazz was around, and he didn’t want to be seen, so he wouldn’t be. 

"I have proof," Bluestreak said, looking rather harried, his optics bright, his sensory panels twitching arrhythmically. He waved a datapad at Prowl. "Or at least enough data for you to finally realize what we've all been trying to tell you all along." 

That ache behind Prowl's left optic turned into a sharp stab. "Come on in," he said and gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Oh, wait. You already did." He sighed. "Where's Jazz?" 

"I have no idea," Bluestreak said without hesitation. He was an even better liar than Jazz sometimes. If Prowl didn't know him so well, he'd have believed Bluestreak in an instant. 

He dropped down into the chair, but not before planting the datapad in the middle of Prowl's desk, right on top of his current work. 

"I did my job," Bluestreak said. 

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sensing some aggression on your part. What did I do to offend?" 

"You arrested Ricochet to provoke Jazz." 

Prowl lifted the datapad and powered it on, skimming the contents. Or pretending to do so at any rate. He already knew all the data on it. "I had evidence suggesting Ricochet was involved in the murders." 

"Don't give me that pitslag." Bluestreak snorted and rolled his optics. "Any halfwit could see that was a set-up." 

"Not according to the general public." Prowl nodded approvingly at the data, purely for Bluestreak’s benefit. 

It felt good to be right. Jazz would forgive him eventually. Bluestreak would as well. After all, they'd gotten results, hadn't they? 

"Two of your suspects are dead," Prowl pointed out, conclusions he’d drawn when he’d first reviewed the data, but had been unable to comment on. 

"Since when does anyone stay dead anymore?" 

"Fair point." 

Prowl handed the datapad back to Bluestreak. “I’ll make a call so you can speak with Whirl,” he said, though he’d done so already. “When you have a legitimate designation, I'll recall the hunt for Ricochet and Jazz." He read the frustration and anger in Bluestreak’s face, and ignored the sharp pang of guilt it produced. "And tell Blurr he's lucky I'm not seriously tracking him, because his attempts at stealth are pathetic." 

"Why do you bother asking me where Jazz is if you already know?" Bluestreak grumbled as he took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it in his subspace. "One of these days someone's going to catch you in your games." 

"They are hardly games." Prowl returned his attention to his complicated paperwork, half-wishing it were a troop-movement report rather than a summary of petty crimes and misdemeanors in the past week in Autobot City. “Perhaps one day you’ll be in my position and you’ll understand better.” 

Bluestreak snorted. “Not likely.” He stood, and Prowl expected him to turn and leave, but he paused, and his hesitation was enough for Prowl to glance up at him. 

“What?” Prowl asked. 

“Maybe if you didn’t work so hard on getting people to hate you, you’d actually want to leave your office,” Bluestreak said, in that cuttingly blunt manner Prowl simultaneously admired and loathed. 

Prowl clenched his jaw, felt a cable in it jump. His spark spun into a tight ball of old, familiar hurts. “It’s not worth it,” he said, and stared at his datapad. “Go. Find me a suspect.” 

Bluestreak sighed. “Sir, yes, sir.” 

He left. 

Glyphs swirled in front of Prowl. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shuttering his optics. He cycled a ventilation -- one, two three -- and then he picked up his stylus and got back to work. 

~

Bluestreak was two steps out of Prowl’s office when his comms pinged, and he raised his orbital ridges at the ident code on the sender. 

“I figured you’d still be aberth at this time,” Bluestreak said as he turned a corner and made a beeline for the jailhouse. “Obviously not alone.” 

“I can’t decide if that’s judgment in your tone or not,” Blurr replied, and his vocals sounded raspy, either from lack of sleep or a night spent in Ricochet’s tender care. Maybe both. “Ricochet said you have a lead.” 

“I might. I have to talk to Whirl first. And you.” Bluestreak checked the traffic flow before he darted across the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a cherry-red minibot. 

“I’ll meet you. Where?” 

“What about New Maccadam’s?” 

“I called Mirage.” 

Wow. Bluestreak was impressed. And a little curious what Blurr used to convince Mirage to open the bar for the day. 

Bluestreak posted in front of the jailhouse, taking a casual pose near a street vendor. “Come to the jailhouse. We can talk to Whirl together.” It might be better that way. Blurr served with Whirl more than Bluestreak had. 

“I’m already halfway there.” 

Bluestreak didn’t have to wait long. This was Blurr after all, and while there were technically laws and speed limits, there wasn’t a single Enforcer who could catch Blurr if he put his processor to it. There were rumors of races starting up again, because entertainment was sorely lacking on Cybertron, and Bluestreak knew his boss would be first in line to sign up. 

The loitering got to Bluestreak, and he found himself buying an oil cake off the street vendor before Blurr jogged up to meet him. Sticky bits of cake clung to Bluestreak’s lips, and he knew he looked like a sparkling caught in the treat jar as Blurr skidded to a halt in front of him. 

“It didn’t take me that long,” he said, a bit affronted. 

Bluestreak stared. 

Blurr was, for lack of a better word,  _marked_. There were bites on his intake, on his neck, on his shoulder. Paint streaked across his hips and sides -- colors that were a perfect match for Ricochet. Wow, someone had been desperate to mark their territory. 

“I felt guilty for loitering.” Bluestreak shoved the rest of the oilcake into his mouth. “Everything okay?” he asked around the mouthful. 

Blurr gave him a weird look. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“No reason.” Bluestreak dusted his hands and started toward the jailhouse, his boss in tow. “Did they show you the list and the files?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

Blurr shook his head. “I’m not any help. I obeyed orders, and that’s the extent of it.” 

Frag. Well, maybe Whirl would be able to shake some screws loose and shed some light on the situation. Because right now, it looked like all their hard work led toward nothing but another dead end. 

Inside the jailhouse, most mechs would have expected noisy chaos. Frequent misdemeanors and domestic disturbances and overcharged mecha tended to make for a chaotic atmosphere. But then, most jailhouses weren’t overseen by Kup. Mech like that commanded respect across factional lines. 

Autobot City Jailhouse was the most orderly containment system Bluestreak had ever had the pleasure of visiting. 

He gave his designation to the front clerk and no other questions were asked -- Prowl had definitely made the call. From there, Bluestreak and Blurr were whisked to an interview room and planted in chairs, awaiting Whirl’s arrival. 

“One of these days I’m goin’ ta stop jumpin’ to obey when Prowl snaps his fingers ya know,” Kup grunted as he brought Whirl in, the latter not at all cuffed. 

Whirl, every time he ended up in a cell, was a model prisoner. Sometimes, Bluestreak thought Whirl preferred the four walls and the stability of it. For some mechs, peace-time was harder than war. Bluestreak could understand that. 

“Awww, Kup. But this favor is for me,” Bluestreak said with a grin, giving Kup that big-opticked stare he knew let him get away with almost anything. 

Kup dropped Whirl into the chair, keeping his hand briefly on the heli’s shoulder. “And that’s the only reason I didn’t argue ‘bout it.” He gave a squeeze to Whirl’s shoulder. “Behave, kid. Maybe I can get ya an early release.” 

“Don’t bother,” Whirl said. “I’m better off in here.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Kup swiveled his cygar from one side of his mouth to the other. He tossed Bluestreak a look. “Give me a ping when you’re done.” 

“Yes, sir.” Bluestreak tossed off a playful salute. 

Kup left, and Whirl slouched in his chair, spreading his clawed hands across the table. “So. Ya got a special meetin’ with me. How can I help ya?” 

“Hey, Whirl.” Blurr flicked his hand in greeting. “I”m not going to ask how you’re doing because it’s pretty obvious.” 

“Yeah. I’m not doing as well as you.” Whirl laughed, and it was self-deprecating. His rotors twitched. “Could be doing worse though, so I guess I can’t complain.” 

Bluestreak pulled out his datapad and flicked it to the proper file. He set it on the table and spun it around to face Whirl. “You get much news in here? Current events?”

“I’m in jail, not under a rock.” Whirl scoffed, and he cocked his head to the side. He leaned forward, peering at the screen. “This about the Wrecker murders? ‘Cause it wasn’t me.” 

Bluestreak snorted. “Obviously.” He tapped the datapad. “I’m on the case. With Jazz.” 

“Really? Good for you!” Whirl tipped his head back and chortled. “Was wondering if that little spark would ever ignite.” His laugh echoed around the room before he focused on the datapad again. “Shame about his brother though. Nasty business. Prowl’s losing his touch.” 

One claw tapped on the datapad. “This a suspect list then?” 

“Sort of,” Blurr said. He leaned against the table, arms folded on the edge. “You remember these missions?” 

“Some. Hard to remember things these days, but some things, you don’t forget.” Whirl’s single optic flashed at Blurr in a sort of Wreckers solidarity, Bluestreak assumed. “Forgot we were on the same side for a while there, Zippy. Them were the fun times.” 

“You know I hate that nickname.” 

Whirl laughed, and he tilted his head again. His ocular focus narrowed. He tapped the datapad pointedly. “Well, Prowl’s really off his game. This is wrong.” 

Bluestreak straightened. “What’s wrong?” He peered at the datapad and the Autobot profile currently on screen. 

“He ain’t dead.” Whirl sat back and rolled his shoulders. “I’ve seen him around, here and there. Forgot I was supposed to know him, you know. But looking now? Yeah. He’s a bit different, but not different enough.” 

Bluestreak grabbed the datapad and spun it back toward him, Blurr leaning in to peer over his shoulder at the profile. Autobot by the name of Whipstrike, he’d been in special operations back then. Part of an infiltration team the Wreckers had been sent to recover. Reportedly, the whole team, save for its leader, had died in the explosion of the Decepticon base. 

The report details were vague, as they often were when plans went FUBAR or high command was trying to hide something. Bluestreak figured the infiltration team wasn’t meant to survive. Sometimes, the only way to clean up a mess was to nuke it all from orbit. 

“I was on this mission,” Blurr said. He frowned, forehead crinkling. “We were supposed to rescue the team. They had valuable intel about a Decepticon fortress.” 

“What happened?” Bluestreak asked. 

Blurr blinked and sat back in his chair. “Nothing happened. We got the lieutenant out; he had the intel.” 

“What about the rest of the team?” 

Blurr squirmed and stared at the table. Whirl scraped a claw across the surface, making a shrill, painful sound. 

“The same thing that happens to any Autobot not important enough,” Whirl said with a scoff, his field pulsing sharp and annoyed through the room. “Sacrificed for a worthy cause. Couldn’t get ‘em all out, so we focused on the important one.” 

Bluestreak raised his orbital ridges. “And left the rest to die?” 

“Orders are orders,” Whirl said, spreading his clawed hands. “We destroyed the base. That was rescue enough. We got the intel, and made a major strike against the ‘Cons. Better to be dead, then stuck in a ‘Con cell, if you ask me.” 

Bluestreak frowned and rapped his fingers on the table. He stared at Whipstrike’s profile. “I doubt anyone on that team would have agreed with you.” 

“Well, they all died. Supposedly.” Whirl shrugged. “Guess not. He must’ve survived somehow. Lucky fragger. Changed his name. Changed his looks. But not enough.” He tapped the side of his head. “Thought he looked familiar. Didn’t connect it until now. Lot of dead mechs around here.” 

“I’ve seen him before, too,” Blurr said, something in his tone dull and guilty. “Now that I think about it. He’s been in the bar.” 

Bluestreak twisted his jaw. “A lot of mechs have been in the bar. How’re you sure he has?” 

“I’m not. Maybe I’m just extrapolating because I want someone to blame.” Blurr snorted and snatched the datapad off the table, fingers flicking through the screens. “He’s a regular. Keeps to himself. Usually leaves before it starts getting busy.” 

But he was alive. That was the important part. He was alive, and he had reason to carry a grudge. Was it enough? Bluestreak didn’t know. The very least they could do was talk to him. Whipstrike certainly fit the bill. He had the skills. He had the motive. 

And Springer led that mission. 

“He bought me a drink once,” Whirl said, head tilting back, optic focused on the ceiling. His tone turned contemplative. “Said mechs like us have to stick together. Which was weird ‘cause you know, I had no idea who he was at the time. But whatever. Free booze.” 

“What did he mean?” Blurr asked. 

Whirl focused on them, and though he didn’t have a face, Bluestreak got the impression of a smirk from him and his field. “Mechs who got screwed over by the war, I’d guess. We all got ghosts.” 

Yeah. 

Ghosts. 

Bluestreak saved his datapad from Blurr and stared hard at the mech on the screen. Dark blue armor, slight frame, no visible kibble, but he wore a visor, probably modded to support his infiltration, like Jazz’s. 

Who knew how many mechs were wandering Cybertron, officially listed as killed in action, but alive and well and trying to start over with that knowledge on their shoulders. How many of them had grudges? 

It had been a long, long war. 

“Can’t blame him honestly,” Whirl said, sounding a little distant, a little bitter. “After a certain point, we were all cannon fodder waiting for our turn to die.” He snorted. “Guess Whipstrike decided it was time to return the favor.”

~

The door opened before Blurr could finish entering the ridiculously complicated code that would allow him access to Ricochet and Jazz’s hideout. He cycled his optics as he straightened, staring straight into Ricochet’s smirk. 

“You’re late,” he said. 

Blurr crinkled his orbital ridge. “For what?” 

Ricochet stepped back, letting him into the safehouse, and Blurr was immediately swallowed by a sensation of emptiness. He wasn’t sure why. It was still furnished as far as he could tell, but there was something about it that felt abandoned. 

“For the big move,” Ricochet said with a broad sweep of his arms. “I’m free and clear and I can finally move out of this dump and go back home. The mystery has been solved.” 

Blurr cycled his optics and drew up straight. “You found out quick.” 

“Jazz is useful for a few things.” Ricochet’s glossa slicked over his lips, and the weight of suggestion was heavy in his words. “Not just in the berth either.” 

Blurr folded his arms and swallowed down a huff. “Great. Someone could have told me before I hiked down here to fill you two in.” 

Ricochet slung his arm over Blurr’s shoulder and tugged Blurr against his side. “Don’t think bro was thinking rationally. He muttered something about Prowl being an aft, and then he was outta here before I could convince him into a quickie.” 

“My spark bleeds for you,” Blurr drawled. He rolled his optics and shrugged out from under Ricochet’s arm. “Then I don’t need to be here at all. I have a bar to run.” 

He didn’t make it two steps before Ricochet snagged him and reeled him back in, mouth finding the sensitive curve of Blurr’s neck. 

“It’s dangerous to go alone,” he rumbled, and Blurr shivered, heat tiptoeing downward and pooling in his groin. “I’m still yer bodyguard.”

Blurr refused to allow himself to melt into the touch, no matter the arousal surging up and down his backstrut. “Against what? Jazz and an Enforcer contingent are going to arrest Whipstrike as we speak.” 

“If he’s even the guilty party.” 

“Who else could it be?” 

“Dunno. Really want to take that chance?” Ricochet asked, and his hands gripped Blurr’s aft, squeezing and tugging him against Ricochet in a clatter of hot armor. 

Blurr swallowed a groan, hooking his fingers into Ricochet’s seams, need surging through his lines, riding the heels of sparked coding. Drift’s words lingered at the back of his mind. He knew he should say something, but what was the point? 

It was over. The bad guy had been identified. Blurr didn’t need a bodyguard anymore, if he ever did, and Ricochet would walk away, and Blurr had no intention of making some cheap attempt to keep him around. Ricochet wouldn’t want it, and Blurr didn’t want to force him to choose either. 

Better this way. 

“Fine,” Blurr said and extricated himself from Ricochet’s arms, despite the pull of want in the pit of his belly. “But only because it’s not worth the hassle.” 

Ricochet laughed. One finger flicked a tire, setting it to spinning. “Whatever you say, Zippy.” 

Blurr harrumphed and stalked toward the door, expecting Ricochet to follow him. “Grab whatever you need to grab. This place makes me itch.” 

“Of course it does, spoiled Racer like you. Needs the finer things in life,” Ricochet drawled, but he snagged a couple of items and stowed them in his subspace. “So let’s get you back to your tower, princess.” 

Blurr swallowed down a retort, only because it would add fuel to the flame. And prove Ricochet’s point. 

They left the small, cramped, and rusted safehouse, with Ricochet carefully locking and securing it behind him. He even reset the code into something equally complicated as before. 

“Never know when we might need to bug out again,” he said while Blurr waited, not patiently, but not impatiently either. “Always good to have a backup plan. That’s the peasant in us.” 

Blurr narrowed his optics. It felt like an accusation and a slight. He resisted the temptation to rise to the jab. 

They began the long, arduous trek back to the surface. Blurr let Ricochet take the lead, and the focus required meant Ricochet didn’t waste his vents on being snarky or a tease. There were times the words almost escaped Blurr. 

_I’m sparked. Pretty sure it’s yours._  

His glossa stalled before they passed his lips. He couldn’t think of a good reason. Ricochet didn’t need to know. Blurr didn’t need or want his help. Accidents happened. Blurr was a Racer. He’d learned to pick himself up, buff out the dents, and keep running. 

The silence of the natural dampening field gave way to the chaotic background noise and bustle of Autobot City and the constant streams of communication. Ricochet winced, armor drawing taut with agitation before he must have dialed down the gain of his comms, because he relaxed. 

“Almost forgot what it was like to be in a city again,” he grunted as he reached down to help pull Blurr out of the hatch. 

Blurr didn’t need the help. 

He let Ricochet pull him out anyway. 

“One last guarding shift for the road, right?” Ricochet said with a half-flash of his visor like a wink, and an unfairly attractive smirk. “Got to get your cred’s worth.” 

“I’m not even paying you,” Blurr grumbled, but he kept unnecessarily close to Ricochet as they plunged into the busy streets, the sideways choked with mechs as it was mid-afternoon, between shifts, and fellow Cybertronians had Things To Do. 

“Not with creds.” Ricochet leered, and a bolt of irritation burned away the arousal burning in his belly. 

Blurr pinged Jazz to distract himself. He received a busy signal and huffily closed the connection without leaving a message. He hoped it meant Jazz was engaged with arresting Whipstrike. 

“I really don’t need an escort,” Blurr said as they pushed through the crowds, more than a few mechs pausing to give Ricochet a startled look. Considering his face had been splashed all over the newsfeeds for the past week, Blurr couldn’t blame them. 

“Come on. You’re not going to let me walk away from a job unfinished, are you?” Ricochet slung his arm over Blurr’s shoulders again, tucking Blurr against his side. “Think of what that would do for my reputation.” 

“I think your reputation will survive,” Blurr drawled. “Considering it’s already thoroughly torched thanks to Prowl.” 

Ricochet’s engine growled. “Yeah. Thanks for the reminder. He and I are gonna talk.” 

“I don’t think that’s going to go well for you.” 

“Other way around, Zippy.” 

Blurr sighed. He debated arguing about the nickname before letting it slide. For one last time, what did it matter? In fact, what would one last time hurt? Might as well get his fun in before the sparkling came, right? 

Right. 

Blurr’s apartment building finally came into view. Jazz pinged him right as they stepped into the lift, and Blurr pushed off Ricochet’s wandering hand as he answered the comm. 

“Please tell me you arrested the mech so I can dismiss my bodyguard,” Blurr said as the doors slid shut, and Ricochet crowded him against the back wall of the lift, his knee notching between Blurr’s thighs. 

He didn’t have it in him to push Ricochet off. 

Ricochet laughed in his audial, rough and growling, enough to send a tingle down Blurr’s spinal strut. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere just yet.” 

“No, we didn’t,” Jazz said, his words coming through the comm like a splash of cold solvent to the face. “We showed up, and the building blew itself to pieces.” 

Blurr twisted away from Ricochet, the response sending a sharp stab of caution through his frame. “Wait. What?” 

Ricochet grabbed for him, and Blurr batted his hands away, shooting off a glare. “Stop it. They didn’t get Whipstrike.” 

Ricochet abruptly drew back, the light in his visor going harsh and flat. “Explain,” he growled, almost louder than Jazz’s answer. 

“The place was rigged to blow. Fragger knew we were coming, or at least expected it. We don’t have a clue where he’s at,” Jazz spat into the comm, his frustration bleeding through. “You gotta be careful, Blurr. You’re on his list.” 

The lift dinged, depositing them on the proper floor. Blurr stumbled out, his processor spinning, Ricochet on his heels, sticking close now, but without the erotic flavor it carried before. 

"How many died?" Blurr asked, feeling numb, Ricochet's grip on his elbow keeping him upright. "Are you all right?" 

"I'm going to kill that fragger," Ricochet snarled, low and dangerous, and the twist of heat in Blurr's belly was completely inappropriate. He pulled Blurr toward his apartment, the last door on the hall. 

"I'm fine," Jazz said, but a sigh came gusty and static through the comm. "I didn't go in with the specials team. Look. I've got a mess to clean up here, and Prowl ridin' my aft. We'll catch up later, all right? Tell Rico he's gotta job to do." 

"He already knows," Blurr replied. He hated himself for the tremble in his fingers as he put his code into the panel, processor steaming as thoughts crashed one into the other. 

The comm ended with a click and a crackle as Blurr's door panel chimed cheerfully. 

"Don't worry," Ricochet said. "I'll keep ya safe, Zippy." 

Blurr managed a scowl and a half-glare as he palmed his door open. "Who's worried?" 

_Pain_. 

Blurr grunted as a bolt of laserfire slammed into his right shoulder, shoving him backward, the crackling energy of it sending him right into Ricochet's chassis. His world spun as Ricochet yanked him from the doorway, spinning him into the cover of the wall just as another shot flew past, where Blurr's spark would have been. 

"Frag," Ricochet snarled, and his field pumped hot and furious into the air. "I should've known." 

Blurr's head spun. He slumped into Ricochet's grasp, his arm aching and armor blackening where the laserfire had scorched him. 

"Well," he said. "We found him."

***

 


	12. Chapter 12

“That’s not funny!” Ricochet snarled as he covered Blurr’s frame with his own, the stench of discharged plasma filling the hallway. They had the cover of the wall, but he doubted that would last for long.   
  
Blurr groaned and grabbed his shoulder, where energon trickled out between his fingers, his arm hanging limp at his side. Dislocated, Ricochet guessed. Or worse. The shot might have nicked a vent, giving the way Blurr’s vents audibly gurgled.   
  
Frag, frag, frag.   
  
“You’re in the wrong line of work, my friend!” A voice shouted from the depths of Blurr’s quarters, the accent thick, like a mech from the southern hemisphere.   
  
Ricochet didn’t trust it for a second. Whipstrike was Special Ops. He could sound like whatever he wanted to sound like.   
  
“I ain’t gettin’ paid for this!” Ricochet hollered back, because if Whipstrike was going to taunt, Ricochet was going to play his game. He could be more annoying. It was a natural talent.   
  
He turned his gaze down to Blurr, who was still clutching his shoulder. “You all right, Zippy?”   
  
“Hate that fragging nickname,” Blurr muttered, and he swayed a little where he stood, energon dripping freely down his arm to splatter the floor. He practically had no armor, the idiot.   
  
Ricochet swallowed down a spike of worry. Now wasn’t the time. “Not when I say it,” he purred, trying to distract.   
  
He tapped his comm, speed-dialing Jazz for some backup because he could really use it right now. He got nothing but static. No, scratch that. He didn’t even get static. He got dead air, which meant his comms were hitting a solid wall of non-communication.   
  
“Damn it,” Ricochet snarled, as Blurr echoed him, hissing a curse as well. “He’s got a comms block up.”   
  
“Yeah. I noticed.” Blurr leaned back against the wall, his optics darkening with a slow anger. “Must’ve activated it when I opened the door.” He met Ricochet’s gaze. “What’s the plan?”   
  
“We make for the lift and get the frag out of here.” Ricochet glanced over his shoulder. It was a relatively straight shot to the lift, but there would be a delay waiting for it. No rampwells either. Who designed a high-rise without rampwells?   
  
"Help isn't coming, Blurr! You might as well stand and fight!" Whipstrike hollered, affecting another accent as blasterfire streaked through the doorway, whizzing past Ricochet and Blurr's hiding spot to splatter against the far wall, singeing an ugly wall print.   
  
"What the frag is he aiming at?"   
  
"He's not." Ricochet batted Blurr's hand away, and tried to get a good look at his shoulder.   
  
Torn, scorched armor peeled away from the wound and a mixture of fluids pumped sluggishly from ripped lines -- hydraulic fluid and energon both. Frag, frag, frag. Ricochet fruitlessly patted down his subspace, but he'd left his kit in the safehouse. He didn't have his emergency sealant.   
  
"Hiding out there won't save you!"   
  
Why the frag would he--   
  
"Why wouldn't it?" Blurr asked, distant to Ricochet's senses as he snapped his head up and glanced around.   
  
He spied the device as bright red lights flashed rapidly at him. No time to think, just react.   
  
Ricochet grabbed Blurr and shoved him to the floor, throwing himself over Blurr just as the bomb exploded above them, sending shards of metal and debris raining down on their frames. A billow of scorching heat singed Ricochet's aft, peeling some of his paint away, and he hissed as his dermal net shouted pain until he overrode the sensors and dampened them.   
  
Frag but he hated fighting spec ops mechs. Especially ones who've had ample time to prepare and danced on the wrong side of crazy.   
  
"He's rigged the damn hallway with explosives," Ricochet snarled as he pumped out a scan and registered more devices, popping up around them in all directions, blocking off every route.   
  
He pulled Blurr to his feet, relieved the Racer wasn't protesting, and shielded Blurr with his frame. He shoved Blurr ahead of him, toward the lift, toward the exit, toward something that wasn't Blurr's own apartment.   
  
Laughter pealed out of Blurr's habsuite as another device exploded in front of them. Blurr tumbled backward, red-orange flames billowing in their direction. Ricochet got an armful of stumbling Racer, the air reeking of incendiaries and scorched metal.   
  
Ricochet hooked an arm around Blurr's abdomen and dragged him to the nearest doorway, smoke filling the air and choking his vents. He slammed them shut as one of the apartments came into view, the locking panel glowing a baleful orange at him. Pfft. Locks.   
  
He slammed an elbow into the access, shattering the protective panel and crumpling it inward. It gave an angry blat at him, but the door didn't immediately slide open. What the frag?   
  
"Security measure," Blurr said, his voice thick with static. He coughed and leaned into Ricochet, one hand touching his forehead where the blast had left him streaked with soot. "Tampering with it doesn't make it short out."   
  
"Of course. Because nothing's going to be easy today, is it?" Ricochet asked.   
  
He shoved Blurr up against the door, shielding the Racer with his frame, and frantically scanned the smoke-clogged hallway for another option. Not that there was one. He knew it. He'd cased this entire building when he'd taken the job. This floor had three apartments, a lift, and a row of windows.   
  
They were three stories up. They couldn't go out the fragging windows. Worse still that they were transteel and not a more easily shattered material.   
  
Blurr shakily reached for a thigh compartment and pulled out a blaster. Ricochet hadn't known he walked around armed. He wasn't supposed to. There was technically a 'no-weapons' agreement across the board.   
  
"Stop trying to kill me!" Blurr hollered as he readied his weapon, though visibly trembling.   
  
Ricochet doubted it had anything to do with fear, given the anger and battle-lust pouring into Blurr's field. And something else, something buried deep beneath the layers. It had the flavor of fear, but not quite.   
  
"It's not my fault!" Blurr added, his shout echoing in the eerie silence of the hall.   
  
Despite the laserfire, the explosions, there was no other noise. The ambient music was gone. There was no shouting from the other rooms. No alarms screamed. It was like they were in their own bubble of madness.   
  
Ricochet tapped Blurr's arm and gestured for him to crouch. They were exposed, here against the door. They needed to find cover somewhere, or at least get low. Make themselves smaller targets. Ricochet triggered his own special ops protocols, and his biolights all went dim or out, making him little more than shadow. Too bad Blurr glowed like a damned blue beacon. Why were Racers so pretty?   
  
"Nothing is ever anyone's fault." The voice floated out of Blurr's apartment, dark and dead. Gone were the pretend accents. Now he had none. No inflection, no accent, nothing. "I'm re-establishing the balance of the universe."   
  
Fantastic. Trained and the wrong side of crazy. The only thing worse was zealotry.   
  
"We ain't reasonin' with this one," Ricochet muttered.   
  
He glanced around, clocking the incendiary devices. At least a half dozen, according to his sensors. Rigged to blow by timed proximity or remote trigger, he'd guess. Fire crackled nearby -- probably the stupid decorative drapes were aflame. He hoped there wasn't anyone in the other apartments. Or worse, that Whipstrike hadn't killed them already.   
  
Blurr crouched, one hand on his blaster, arm still dangling loose and freely leaking. "I'm fast. I can run in there and take him down."   
  
Ricochet wrapped his hand around Blurr's upper arm, squeezing tight. "Like frag you are," he hissed. "I told Jazz I'd keep ya alive, and the last thing I'm going to do is lie to him." He tightened his grip, until the metal creaked and threatened to dent. Damn fragile Racers.   
  
Blurr glared at him. "I wasn't asking permission."   
  
"Stop hiding, Blurr! You're a Wrecker, aren't you?" The shout sounded closer.   
  
A rapid beeping preceded the explosion of another one of the devices, but luckily on the other side of the hall from them. Ricochet ducked and pulled Blurr down further anyway, shielding them from debris. Smoke, thick and black, filled the hall.   
  
Blurr coughed, his vents sputtering. He wasn't made for war. He’d had no business being a Wrecker. How had he survived?   
  
"I'm the bodyguard here," Ricochet hissed and released Blurr, pulling out his own blaster in the same motion. If Blurr was going to insist on being reckless, then Ricochet would just have to beat him to it.   
  
He darted away from Blurr, across the open space of the hallway, firing blindly into the apartment. Something shattered. Low whumps indicated blastershot contact. Whether or not they landed on Whipstrike, he couldn't be sure.   
  
Ricochet tucked and rolled, pressing his back against the frame beside Blurr's door, opposite where he'd covered Blurr earlier. He crouched, keeping low, painfully aware of the explosive above his head.   
  
A literal blur of blue darted past him, into the open doorway. That idiot!   
  
Ricochet snarled and threw himself after Blurr, giving chase, sensors exploding into the apartment as he tapped into his mental layout and hoped Whipstrike hadn't taken the time to rearrange the furniture.   
  
"Find cover!" Ricochet shouted as he threw himself behind the low frontroom table. He flipped it up, hiding behind it.   
  
 _Boom_! Orange-red light flashed through the room, and a waft of heat flooded over the top of Ricochet's head.   
  
Blurr's startled cry of pain sent a lurch of anxiety through Ricochet's spark. He peered around the edge.   
  
His engine growled as he caught sight of Blurr clattering to the floor, rolling to a stop at the feet of a mech a bit smaller than Ricochet himself, his gray-black armor as unlit as Ricochet's and his face hidden behind mask and visor both. He looked nothing like either of the two pictures Jazz had transmitted to him, but he had to be Whipstrike.   
  
He had to be, because he’d crouched near Blurr and pressed his blaster to Blurr’s forehead, fingers curled tight around the trigger.   
  
Ricochet tensed to leap out.   
  
"Don't!" Blurr yelped, his optics flashing bright and terrified, his vocals striped with static. "I'm sparked!"  
  
Ricochet froze.   
  
Whipstrike did, too. His blaster didn't move, his finger poised on the trigger, but he didn't pull. "You're lying," he said, low and raspy. His hand trembled.   
  
"You're what?" Ricochet demanded, the words echoing around his head, enough he thought he should reboot his audials because surely he didn't hear what he thought he just heard. Surely, it was all a ruse to get Whipstrike to pause. It must be a distraction.   
  
Blurr's expression never wavered, and the fear Ricochet had tasted earlier, the not-quite fear, he recognized it now. It wasn’t a fear for oneself, it was fear for another person.   
  
"I'm not lying," Blurr said, his entire frame frozen, his vents whining. "I'm sparked. And if you're talking about balancing the universe, how does that equation add up if you kill me and an innocent sparkling?"   
  
"There's no such thing as innocence," Whipstrike spat, but he wavered. He didn't pull the trigger. He stared and stared at Blurr.   
  
Kind of like the way Ricochet was now. It was too far to read Blurr's field, but his tone bled sincerity.   
  
"What do you mean you're sparked?" he demanded, his processor whirling from the absurdity of the situation. This was hardly the time. He needed to focus, but what if Blurr was telling the truth? What if he was sparked? What if it was  _his_?  
  
"Innocence exists for someone who’s never seen a sunrise, I think," Blurr replied, and he slicked his lips out of nervousness. It had to be. His optics darted in Ricochet's direction -- no, toward where he'd dropped his blaster when he hit what must have been a landmine.   
  
It was almost brilliant. It was the perfect tactic when fighting someone with Blurr’s kind of speed. Ricochet hated Whipstrike that much more.   
  
Whipstrike growled. The barrel of the blaster pressed harder against Blurr's head. One shot. Processor. It wasn't a killing blow. Not entirely. With a spark, Blurr could be rebuilt, reborn, with most of his memory gone of course. But the sparkling wouldn't survive. Not without a processor to direct the frame. Besides, it didn't matter. Whipstrike's next shot would undoubtedly take Blurr's spark.   
  
Ricochet wasn't fast enough.   
  
But.   
  
But Whipstrike was focused on Blurr. He wasn't looking at anything else. He wasn't paying attention.   
  
Ricochet eased out from behind the table and crept closer to them, there on the other side of the room, rucked up against the hallway leading toward the main door. The berthroom was just to Whipstrike's right, though the door was fragging closed.   
  
He could be a distraction. They outnumbered Whipstrike. They were both trained mechs.   
  
"Look, I'm sorry you were abandoned and left to die," Blurr started to say, and his words came out fast, clipped, starting to slur together. "War sucks. None of us liked it. A lot of good mechs died, and a lot of bad mechs lived, and that's just the unfairness of it all. Killing me, killing my friends, that's not going to change the past."   
  
Whipstrike's visor flashed. "I don't care about fixing the past," he said. "It's about what fair!" The last was a snarl, and his head snapped up, his gaze unerringly finding Ricochet as though he'd spotted the movement in his periphery.   
  
Damn it.   
  
"Don't move!" Whipstrike snapped.   
  
Distraction. He needed a--  
  
Ricochet's lip threatened to curl into a smirk. He ignored Whipstrike and looked at Blurr. If the trick to keeping Whipstrike engaged was to question his motives, then Ricochet would do just that.   
  
"How are you sparked?" he asked.   
  
He gripped his blaster in both hands, and he'd had it trained on Whipstrike from the moment he stood, but he pretended it wasn't important. Not compared to this question.   
  
"This isn't the time!" Blurr hissed, but his gaze darted to his blaster again, and to the fact Whipstrike had lifted the barrel of the gun away from Blurr's head by a few inches.   
  
"I will shoot him," Whipstrike threatened, but the resolve in his tone seemed to have wavered. His gaze kept shifting to Ricochet, perhaps assessing him as the bigger threat.   
  
Good.   
  
Ricochet pretended not to hear Whipstrike. "Is it mine?" he asked, playing his part, amping up the distraction. He only needed a moment.   
  
“It doesn’t matter!” Blurr snapped, and he jerked beneath Whipstrike, maybe intentionally, maybe not.   
  
Whipstrike startled and swung his attention down toward Blurr. Ricochet snapped up his blaster and squeezed off a shot, the rapport of the laserfire echoing through the apartment. But Whipstrike was faster than he thought, twisting back to avoid the shot, his finger twitching to pull on the trigger aimed at Blurr’s head.   
  
Blurr moved, again with that preternatural speed, twisting beneath Whipstrike, enough to throw him off balance. The laserfire streaked past Blurr’s head, missing it by a thin margin, and scorched the floor.   
  
“Frag you both!” Whipstrike snarled as Ricochet leapt across the room, firing again, slamming into Whipstrike’s shoulder this time as Blurr snatched at Whipstrike’s ankle, throwing him off balance.   
  
Whipstrike tumbled to the ground, landing on top of Blurr, and limbs flailed, gray-black and blue intermingling. Curses split the air, the dull thunk of metal impacting metal. Ricochet vaulted the couch, blaster drawn, spark pounding in his chassis.   
  
Blurr hissed in pain as Whipstrike got a good blow against his damaged shoulder. Ricochet skidded into reach just as Blurr landed a solid kick to Whipstrike’s chassis, shoving the mech backward into the wall with a harsh crack. Static fritzed through Whipstrike’s visor, energon snaking out over his chassis from the blastershot he’d taken earlier.   
  
There were a lot of things Ricochet could do. He could disarm Whipstrike. He could take out a few limbs, prevent him from being a danger in the moment. He could show mercy.  
  
Ricochet had never been a merciful mech.   
  
He lifted his blaster and squeezed the trigger, a burst of laserfire erupting from his blaster and slamming into Whipstrike’s chestplate, on a central seam, right over his spark.   
  
Ricochet squeezed again. And again. Until Whipstrike’s chassis was a smoking ruin, and the light behind his visor flickered to a dull black. He hung there, pinned against the wall, until he gradually slid down it, crumpling into a mass of scorched plating on the floor.   
  
Ricochet stowed his blaster.   
  
“We could have restrained him,” Blurr said, from the floor, his vocals crackling with static.  
  
“Killing him was kinder.” Ricochet moved to Blurr’s side, helping him slide away from Whipstrike’s corpse and the stench of an expired spark. “He’s been harmed by the Autobots enough. He didn’t need to suffer a trial, too.”  
  
"If you say so," Blurr groaned and clutched at his shoulder, his fingers trembling. Whether it was from the adrenaline rush or the energon loss, Ricochet wasn't sure.   
  
But a ping on the edge of Ricochet's awareness informed him that the comms were working now. So he tapped his brother's speed-dial, and Jazz picked up within a half-second.   
  
"What th' frag is goin' on?" Jazz demanded, sounding harried and a touch panicked.   
  
Ricochet laughed, aloud and across the comm. "Found yer killer. He's a scorched mess on Blurr's floor right now. But if you're feeling grateful, you could send a medic."  
  
"A medic?" Jazz echoed, and concern bled into his vocals. "What happened? Are you okay? How's Blurr?"   
  
"We're both alive, Jazzy, geez. What kind of bodyguard do you take me for?" Ricochet lowered himself down with a grunt, cycling several steadying vents. "Just get yer aft over here. You can interrogate us later."   
  
He ended the comm on Jazz's spluttering, and waited to see if Jazz would immediately ping back. He didn't.   
  
Good.   
  
"Jazz is on his way. With help," Ricochet said.   
  
"Better late than never." Blurr slumped in Ricochet's arms, his field shrieking exhaustion and pain. He curled into Ricochet, field seeking comfort as of its own accord. "Frag, this sucks."   
  
"Yeah." Ricochet twisted his jaw, debated for half of a second before he gathered his courage and said, lightly, "So you're sparked?"   
  
He waited for laughter. For a snort of disbelief.   
  
Instead, Blurr squirmed. "Yeah," he said, and shuttered his optics, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. "I was actually telling the truth."   
  
Wow.   
  
"And?" Ricochet prompted, because every time he tried to poke his processor, he got a dial tone. It didn’t compute.   
  
"It could be yours. Could be Jazz's. It's hard to tell with twins. Doesn't matter really." Blurr sounded so casual, so blase. Ricochet wanted to shake him, get him to react.   
  
Anger flashed hot and sharp through Ricochet's lines. He swallowed it down with a restraint he didn't usually bother to use. He hoped it was just the energon loss, and not that Blurr was indifferent to the little one growing in him.   
  
"When were you going to tell me?" he demanded, because he couldn't shake a mech who was sparked and injured.   
  
Blurr lifted his head and glared at him. "Maybe after I figured out whether or not you were the one killing my friends?"   
  
"Seriously?" Ricochet reared back, nearly dropping Blurr. "You actually thought I was responsible?"  
  
"I don't know anything about you!" Blurr sat up and pulled away, though not far, because Whipstrike's corpse smoked nearby, and he had one useless arm and damaged legs. "You're Jazz's twin. So? That doesn't get you an automatic pass. You were also a Decepticon for most of the war. We fragged. That's all."   
  
"I deserved to know," Ricochet said through clenched teeth, his insides twisting with a cavalcade of emotions, some of which he didn’t know he had. "You think I'm that much of an aft that I'd not want to know about my sparkling?"   
  
Two weeks, most of it spent sharing a berth, and they still knew so little about each other.   
  
Blurr struggled to his feet, and Ricochet stood to support him, a bit surprised Blurr didn't jerk away. "Like I said, I barely know you. I wasn't going to take a chance. Get over it."   
  
Ricochet squared his jaw. "Fine," he said, but he caught Blurr’s gaze and he held it, sliding his field against Blurr’s with determination. "Then we'll fix that."   
  
Blurr's optics narrowed. "I'm keeping it." He yanked away, and Ricochet didn't fight him.   
  
"That's not what I meant." Ricochet folded his arms. "You don't know me? We can fix that. I'm not walking away from this."   
  
"Right. Pity dating. No thanks." Blurr turned as if to stomp away, but he wobbled, and Ricochet grabbed him before he could collapse. He didn't need another fall. He was already covered in dents, and the snuffling of his vents was worrisome.   
  
"You got a big fragging problem with assumptions, Zippy." Ricochet squeezed Blurr's arm, alarmed a little by the coolness of his armor. "You think I go around fragging mechs I pity? Because I'm not that kind of mech."   
  
Blurr shook his head and swayed in place, to the point Ricochet had to slide an arm around his waist to keep him upright. He touched his forehead with his uninjured hand, his field slithering around his frame like it was too much trouble to stay close. It was disconcerting.   
  
"I can't think about this right now," Blurr said. His vocals crackled with static, words slurring on the latter. "It's too much."   
  
"Yeah, sure."   
  
He had a point about that.   
  
Ricochet looked over at Windstrike's corpse, turned ashen gray, visor dark, bleeding all over Blurr's apartment floor. In the distance, sirens grew closer and louder.   
  
Ricochet tugged Blurr closer to the couch and sat him on it. He grabbed one of the pillows and held it to the jagged tear in Blurr’s injured shoulder, directing him to hold it in place with the other hand.   
  
"Call me if you need anything," he said, and huffed it out into the hallway, his thoughts churning. He might as well disarm those bombs before emergency services arrived. It would give him something to do beyond thinking about the sparkling growing in Blurr's tank.   
  
Primus.  
  
What a fragging mess.   
  


***


	13. Chapter 13

"Here."   
  
Jazz looked at the cube being held out to him. He followed the gray fingers up a gray arm to the person on the end of it, Bluestreak smiling softly down at him.   
  
"Thanks, Blue." Jazz sat up as he accepted the cube, making himself comfortable in the chair. It was like being pulled from a fugue, and he almost shook himself into focus.   
  
Bluestreak sat down beside him, cupping his own cube. "You all right?"   
  
"All things considered? I'm just dandy." Other than the fact he sat the waiting room of the medcenter, waiting for the final word on Blurr and Ricochet. He didn't want to think about the body in the morgue.   
  
Bluestreak nodded slowly, carefully, like someone tiptoeing through a potential minefield. "We solved the case, right?"   
  
"You solved it," Jazz corrected and popped the cap with his thumb, taking a big swig of the energon. He coughed as it bubbled and burned.   
  
Oh, frag. That was engex, not energon. Sneaky, sneaky Blue.   
  
Bluestreak's sensory panels twitched. He looked down at his cube, picking at the fading label on it. "It was a joint effort."   
  
Jazz smiled, though his insides were a twisted, tangled mess of confusion. "We make a pretty good team, yanno."   
  
"I've always thought so." Bluestreak raised his orbital ridges and took a sip of his energon, his sensory panels giving another wiggle.   
  
Jazz huffed a laugh, though it was brief. He drank his engex again, contemplating it.   
  
Soft music played overhead, tinny through the crackling speakers. Tension fizzled in the air, and it wasn't only Jazz’s concern for his brother, or Blurr, or apparently, the sparkling Blurr had in his tank and hadn't seen fit to tell anyone about.   
  
Bluestreak's leg slipped closer, nudging his. "I know you're not in a mindset to talk right now, but if you are, I'm here," he said. "And I don't mean about us, that's a deeper conversation to have. But about anything else, you know. We're friends. Right? Everything else aside."   
  
Jazz’s spark skipped a beat. He buried it behind a long, finishing gulp of his engex. He tucked the empty cube into his subspace, rather than crumple it. “Yeah. ‘Course we’re friends, Blue. You’re one of the best ones I got.”   
  
Bluestreak’s smile made his spark throb all the harder. “Good. Me, too.” He drank from his own cube and picked a little more at the label. “Anyway, I have something, and I’m not sure if it qualifies as good news or bad news.”   
  
Jazz drew down his orbital ridges. “Let me guess, it comes from Prowl.”   
  
“That’s why you’re the smart one.” Bluestreak laughed, genuine, and dipped a hand into his subspace, pulling out a datapad. He tilted it Jazz’s direction. “It’s a copy of the statement he’s releasing to the press tomorrow.”   
  
Ugh.   
  
Jazz accepted the datapad. The device was helpfully keyed in to Prowl’s statement, and Jazz braced himself for all manner of bullshit. Prowl knew how to cover his tracks, how to spin a story, how to narrow the facts down to what the public needed to know and what they didn’t.   
  
Ricochet was absolved, at least. Small favors. Jazz had the feeling Prowl hadn’t been seriously charging him with the crime in the first place. In the aftermath, once the chaos had calmed, Jazz had examined the situation with a keener optic.   
  
Frag Prowl to the Pit and back. Jazz hated it when he was right.   
  
Ricochet wasn’t going to get an apology. He’d be furious. Prowl better watch his back. Jazz wasn’t even going to warn him. Served Prowl right.   
  
Prowl did, at least, finger Whipstrike for the crimes, though his statement indicated Whipstrike had died in the explosion of his apartment, where several Enforcers had also perished. No mention was made of Blurr and Ricochet’s involvement.   
  
Ricochet’s execution, to be fair. Jazz had been the first on scene. He’d counted the explosives his twin had disarmed and left in a little pile. He’d seen the mess of the hallway, the empty apartments, the scorchmarks of laserfire and the ruined remains of Whipstrike’s corpse.   
  
Neither Ricochet nor Blurr had been particularly forthcoming on the details of the encounter, but Jazz could read the violence for himself. Whipstrike didn’t seem the type to surrender, and Ricochet was even less the sort for mercy. That was the leftover Decepticon bits of him.   
  
The blame was landed squarely on Whipstrike. A ‘personal grudge’ to use Prowl’s words, conveniently leaving out the part where a mission given on Prowl’s orders left a mech to die in a Decepticon prison because he wasn’t important enough.   
  
Jazz wasn’t stupid. He knew a little something about hard choices during war. About sacrifices, and weighing one spark against another, and when people could be saved and when they couldn’t. Logically, Prowl’s orders made sense.   
  
The Wreckers were sent to retrieve valuable intel, and if possible, rescue the captives. The ‘if possible’ became an ‘impossible’ when they assessed the circumstances in person. Nuke it all from orbit was the only way to be sure.   
  
It was a good call.   
  
That didn’t make it any easier to swallow.   
  
Jazz sighed and flicked off the datapad before handing it back to Bluestreak. It left him feeling hollow inside. They’d won the war, or at least come to a mutually agreeable conclusion, and sometimes, Jazz wondered if any of them had learned a damned thing.   
  
“I hope he’s not lookin’ for my approval,” Jazz said.   
  
“He doesn’t look for anyone’s approval,” Bluestreak replied, but there was no offense in his tone, just a soft statement of acceptance. “But if he was…?”  
  
“I wish I could disagree.” Jazz leaned back, elbows on the chair, his gaze tracking through the otherwise empty waiting room. The overhead music had switched to another song, even more grating than the first. “I hate that he’s right, like he usually is.”   
  
Jazz licked his lips and cast an askance look at Bluestreak. Something swelled in his chassis, trying to suffocate him. He had words he should say. Ricochet’s chastisement stung at the back of his processor.   
  
“It’s okay,” Bluestreak said. He tilted Jazz a soft smile, like he’d looked right through Jazz, to the shaky core of him, and knew all the right things to say. “We’ll talk later.”   
  
Primus, Jazz wanted to kiss him.  
  
"Yeah," Jazz agreed, hope unfurling in his spark, though he was careful not to let it show. "Soon."   
  


~

  
  
Blurr onlined and nothing hurt, which was surprising considering the last thing he remembered was being thrown around by several explosions, and taking a blastershot to the shoulder. He was sure it must have nicked a vent and many important fluid lines. He remembered the distinct, terrible sensation of choking on his own fluids as they pooled in his ventilation system.   
  
He stared up at a fuzzy, blank ceiling, and bright lights glared back at him. The medcenter. There was something unique about the lighting in medical facilities. He hated waking up in medcenters.   
  
"You are surprisingly durable for a Racer."   
  
The shape on his left coalesced into Ricochet, slouched in the chair, bits of temp plating slapped over his armor in garish blotches.   
  
"You've been here the whole time?" Blurr asked and licked his lips, his glossa dry and his mouth like sandpaper.   
  
Ricochet straightened a little and flicked his hands to show his palms. "Bodyguard remember?" He grinned, but it lacked the usual abrasiveness. Or maybe Blurr had just gotten used to it.   
  
Blurr snorted and fumbled for the berth control with the hand he could actually feel, trying to shift it upright. "Threat's down. Don't think that counts anymore."   
  
"Hey. Let me have my excuse, alright?" Ricochet got up and reached across him, flicking his fingers away to activate the berth.   
  
It whined and hissed as it adjusted, inclining gradually. Not that Ricochet leaned back, he stayed disarmingly close, the heat of him buffeting against Blurr's chassis, the scent of him familiar but mingled with weldfire and the bitter tang of temporary sealant.   
  
"Thanks," Blurr muttered.   
  
"All part of the job." Richochet planted his aft on the edge of the berth, hip pressed to Blurr's thigh. "Doc had to go in and do some surgery. S'why ya can't feel your arm yet."   
  
Blurr glanced at his injured shoulder, which was covered in an obscene amount of temp plating, sealant and a smear of nanite gel. "Makes sense." He'd been choking on his own coolant. That was something only surgery could fix.   
  
"Sparkling's fine," Ricochet said with a pointed look. He rested his hand on Blurr's thigh, and Blurr couldn't think of a reason to protest. "He's a tough little spark."   
  
Primus. Blurr didn't want to have this conversation. He knew he needed to, he just didn't want to.   
  
"Look," Blurr said, and stared somewhere over Ricochet's shoulder, at the vidscreen playing silently in the background, subtitles rolling by underneath as the newscaster did his job. "I can do this on my own. I'm not going to ask for anything. I don't need help. And I definitely don't need you sticking around because you feel guilty."   
  
He paused, hesitated, then barreled forward because he might as well lay it all out on the table and finish things now, rather than deal with them later.   
  
"We fragged. It was fun. We had a good time. That's all it was supposed to be. You don't have to look any deeper than that," Blurr finished. He worked his jaw, cycled a ventilation. "I don't want your guilt. All right?"   
  
Ricochet made a noncommittal sound. His hand slid down to Blurr's knee, and he gripped it. Not painfully, but pointedly. "Well, if you're done deciding what I want for me, can I put my two creds in or should I just wait for the payment?"   
  
Blurr cycled his optics. "What?" He jerked his attention to Ricochet and read the anger in the taut line of his jaw, the dark hue of his visor.   
  
"First, yeah, we fragged and it was fun. No, I didn't come into it looking for something serious, but then again, I never do. With Jazz, I figure serious ain't in my future, you get me?" Ricochet asked, his grip firm, and his tone demanding.   
  
Blurr worked his intake and nodded. "I don't care about Jazz."   
  
"Yeah, I know. That's what makes ya so temptin'." Ricochet smirked, and it had an edge of lewd to it. "Now, all that aside, I still dunno if serious is what I want. But I'm not such an idiot that I'm gonna walk away assumin' I don't."   
  
He lifted his other hand and tapped Blurr gently on the abdomen. "That's my sparkling you got in there, or Jazz's but either way, still mine. That is somethin' I'm gonna be serious about no matter what. Like frag I'm gonna be a slag sire like mine was."   
  
Blurr sucked in a slow, steady vent. "So..."   
  
"So what I'm saying is..." Ricochet slid his hand up Blurr's thigh, toward his hips, slow and deliberate. "Can I take ya out to dinner when ya get discharged?"   
  
Blurr's spark throbbed, completely without his consent. "You're serious."   
  
"Damn right I am." Ricochet leaned in closer, his hand skimming up, fingers skating the inside of Blurr's thigh. "I don't like losin' what's mine." His other hand rested on Blurr's clavicle, thumb sweeping inward to brush over the bite he'd left on Blurr however many days ago it had been.   
  
Blurr shivered.   
  
Primus. This was a terrible, horrible idea. Like taking Ricochet to berth the first time, and letting Ricochet crawl under his armor. Like forgetting to make sure his shunt was functional, and thinking ghosts of the war wouldn't come back to haunt him.   
  
Blurr licked his lips again. He hooked his fingers in Ricochet's clavicular strut and yanked him in for a kiss, slamming their mouths together, their denta clacking. Ricochet's fingers curved around Blurr's clavicular strut. His glossa plunged into Blurr’s mouth, tasting of medgrade and terrible, terrible decisions.   
  
Ricochet growled, his hand curving around Blurr's thigh, holding him in place. He deepened the kiss, as if staking a claim, and another shudder ripped over Blurr's frame. His processor spun, heat throbbing through his sensor net, through his spark, pooling in his array.   
  
"I take it that's a yes?" Ricochet asked as he nipped Blurr's lips before pressing a thumb against the underside of his chin, tipping his head back so he could mouth at Blurr's intake and lick over his bites.   
  
Blurr groaned, his thighs parting before he considered it logically, making room for Ricochet's hand to slide further up and brush over his array panel. "We could skip dinner."   
  
Ricochet chuckled against his intake, denta skating over Blurr's cables. "Nope. Dinner is a requirement. I'm a gentlemech."   
  
"Ahem."   
  
Blurr unshuttered his optics -- when had he closed them? -- and glanced toward the door. Ratchet stood in the opening, arms folded, one orbital ridge arched in their direction. His expression was a cross between amused and angry.   
  
"Not in my hospital," Ratchet said. "I don't care if you've made up or not."   
  
Blurr stilled.   
  
Ricochet nipped Blurr's intake before he pulled back, though his hand lingered on Blurr's thigh. "Ya have the worst timing, doc."  
  
"I have the best timing. There'll be no fragging in my medberth, thank you very much." Ratchet came into the room, letting the door shut behind him. "Your brother is looking for you. It might be nice if you gave him an update." He gave Ricochet a pointed look.   
  
"You’re no fun," Ricochet said, but he withdrew his fingers and pushed off the berth, slipping into a long, exaggerated stretch. "I'll be back."   
  
Blurr's glossa flicked over his lips. "Sure."   
  
Ricochet's visor flashed, but if he was going to ask something, he kept it to himself. He strutted past Ratchet with a smirk, and vanished out the door, leaving Blurr and Ratchet alone.   
  
Ratchet dragged his hand down his face and pulled the chair Ricochet had vacated closer to Blurr's berth before dropping down into it. "Primus save me from cocky slaggers."   
  
"You're married to one," Blurr pointed out.   
  
"Don't remind me," Ratchet said with a snort. He pulled out a scanner and aimed it at Blurr. "Look forward to being nannied by him, by the way. He's feeling guilty, like an idiot."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Because he's an idiot." Ratchet sighed as his scanner beeped, and he peered at the readings, paging through them with quick flicks of his finger. "He'll get over it eventually. In the meantime, he's cleaned your apartment and hired someone to do the repairs, and he's been keeping an optic on your bar, helping out when they're short-handed."   
  
Whoa. It was nice to have one less worry on his shoulders, actually. Blurr wasn't looking forward to trudging home and having a mess to clean up.   
  
"I'll talk to him," Blurr said.   
  
Ratchet made a noncommittal noise and tapped on the scanner's display. "Your self-repair is functioning efficiently. I'll go ahead and take off that sensor block. I think you're good to go home tomorrow."   
  
Blurr sank back into the embrace of the medberth. "What about..?" He gestured to his abdomen pointedly.   
  
"The sparkling? He's fine. Tough little bugger, not that I'm surprised." Ratchet's lip curled, but there was nothing mocking about it. "So I take it you worked things out with Ricochet?"   
  
"I'm not talking about that with you." Blurr side-eyed him. He'd had enough spilling his spark to people today.   
  
"Fair enough." Ratchet stowed the scanner and leaned closer, gently lifting Blurr's numbed arm and connecting to his medical port. It took a moment before Blurr's arm started to tingle as the sensor block fizzled out. "The offer stands."   
  
"Noted." Blurr flexed his fingers, feeling cables tug and pull, and the dull ache of healing in his shoulder. It was going to be tender for weeks.   
  
But it could've been worse, he knew.   
  
A lot worse.   
  


~

  
  
Ricochet found Jazz in the waiting room, standing in front of the massive wall-sized window, staring out at the dark grey sky hanging heavy over Autobot City. He had his back to the room, though Ricochet knew he would never be able to catch Jazz unaware. In the reflection of the window, Jazz's visor was dimmed, his mouth set in a thin line.   
  
Ricochet knew that look. He called it Bluestreak. Primus, his brother was an idiot sometimes.   
  
He stepped up behind Jazz -- silent even if he knew it didn't matter -- and slipped his arms around Jazz's frame, tugging him into an embrace. He set his chin atop Jazz's head, one hand splayed over Jazz's abdomen, the other on his bumper, between his headlights.   
  
"Ya fragged him yet?" he asked.   
  
"Shut up."   
  
Ricochet bit the nearest sensory horn. Jazz jerked in his arms, his engine growling. He threw an elbow back, toward Ricochet's side, and Ricochet twisted to avoid it.   
  
"When did you get to be such a coward?" Ricochet asked. He stroked Jazz's bumper, contemplating the polished headlight inches from his fingertips. No fragging in the medberth, Ratchet had said, so did that mean the waiting area was up for grabs?   
  
Jazz huffed. “No one asked your opinion.”   
  
Ricochet flicked his headlight. “Yer gonna get it anyway. What the frag’s yer problem?”   
  
“I need it,” Jazz bit out, and in the window, Ricochet saw his visor cut to the side. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, denta visibly pinning it down before he set it free.   
  
“Hmm.” Ricochet’s flick turned into a caress, his palm cupping Jazz’s headlight and giving it a squeeze.   
  
His brother shivered in his arms, field turning liquid, frame melting into him, his vents blasting a surge of air. He made a sound in his intake, a needy one, that shot straight to Ricochet’s array with a throb of want.   
  
Jazz knew all the right buttons to push.   
  
Fortunately, Ricochet did, too. He slid his other hand down, fingers scraping his array panel with intent.   
  
“Not here,” Jazz said, though he rolled against Ricochet’s fingers, his field screaming with need.   
  
Ricochet mouthed his sensory horn. “There’s a supply closet. Down the hall. First door on the right. Meet you there.” He bit down, hard enough to dent, and then pulled back, strutting away from Jazz, leaving his brother wobbling in front of the window.   
  
Served him right.   
  
Ricochet made for the closet, jimmied the manual lock to let himself inside, and waited. It wasn’t long before Jazz slipped inside, quiet as a ghost, his field clinging and hungry, with an edge of desperation. He forgot, too much, how well Ricochet knew him.   
  
He grabbed Jazz and kissed him, harsh and without pleasantries, eating at his brother’s mouth with the force and claim Jazz wanted. Jazz immediately melted, going pliant under his hands, as Ricochet manipulated Jazz into position.   
  
Facing the back wall, a single light flickering above them, Jazz gripping a tenuous metal shelf stacked with questionable boxes. Ricochet draped against his back, arms around him again, one hand around his intake, the other scraping over his panel.   
  
“Open,” Ricochet demanded.   
  
Jazz obeyed, leaking over Ricochet’s fingers, the tang of his lubricant so thick, Ricochet tasted it on the air. He danced his fingertips over Jazz’s anterior node first, rolling them against the swollen nub, Jazz melting into his arms with a quiet whimper, his field bleeding need.   
  
“You are a coward,” Ricochet said, his voice carefully modded to a low growl, a tone of command, right into Jazz’s audial. “Ya begged me for this, knowin’ I’m not the one ya wanted. I’m feelin’ a little used, bro.”   
  
“That’s not--”  
  
Ricochet bit his sensory horn, sharp enough to leave an imprint of his denta. “I didn’t say ya could speak.” He pinched Jazz’s nub, firm pressure between his fingertips.   
  
A groan tore out of his brother’s intake. He lapsed into silence, clinging to the shelves. Ricochet flexed his fingers, tightened them into a firmer pressure against Jazz’s intake.   
  
“Yer so good at obeyin’ everythin’ else but not this?” Ricochet curled his fingers, sliding them into Jazz’s valve, cupping his palm so that the heel of it ground down on his node cluster.   
  
A whimper rose in Jazz’s intake, buzzing against Ricochet’s palm. He bucked into Ricochet’s hand, throbbing hot and needy.   
  
“I told ya to talk to him, to give in like the both of ya wanted, but instead yer here, comin’ to me.” Ricochet bit his horn again and curved three fingers into Jazz’s valve, hooking them to scrape over the nodecluster inside the rim.   
  
Jazz shuddered, head tipping back, lubricant spilling out and coating Ricochet’s fingers. His field crashed against Ricochet’s and clung stickily, pulsing with building pleasure.   
  
“Usin’ me,” Ricochet hissed.   
  
“No,” Jazz moaned, but it was a lie, Ricochet could taste it. He knew his brother too well. This was a situation festering for too long, and Ricochet was tired of it. Tired of secrets. They’d never done anyone any good.   
  
Look at Whipstrike. Look what festering did for him.   
  
Ricochet squeezed, enough to make a point. No speaking. Jazz fell into silence.   
  
“You will listen to me,” Ricochet said, slowly, carefully, enunciating so as not to drop his glyphs. He stroked and pinched and teased, driving his brother to the edge, but not enough to let him tip. He kept Jazz there, hung on the precipice, dangling. “You will talk to Bluestreak. You will lay your cards on the table.”   
  
He felt Jazz trying to speak, and a squeeze caught Jazz’s vocalizer, fizzling it to static. He leaned harder against his twin. Jazz shuddered, bucked against his hand, and a crackle of static lit under his armor.   
  
Frag that.   
  
Ricochet smacked him, open-palmed to his bared valve, a sharp heat on his anterior node. Jazz jerked, and he turned back into molten heat, sucking in a heavy vent.   
  
“No overloading.” Ricochet cupped Jazz’s array, kept the heel of his hand as a pressure on Jazz’s anterior node. “Listen to me, brother. You’re going to get an answer, one way or another. You hear me? We’re not cowards. We’re not our sire.”   
  
He tilted Jazz’s head further back, got his mouth on the join of neck and shoulder, and clamped down. He bit hard enough to leave a mark, to leave imprints of his denta for anyone to see -- especially Bluestreak.   
  
Jazz was still his. Ricochet shared by choice. Ricochet was offering Bluestreak permission. From one dom to another, he figured Bluestreak would understand. If he didn’t, then he wasn’t the mech Ricochet thought he was, and didn’t deserve Jazz anyway.   
  
Ricochet lapped over the bite before raising his lips to Jazz’s audial. “You’re going to go talk to him. Now. Settle this now.” He rubbed his palm over Jazz’s array, felt him shudder in his arms, and then he let go.   
  
He pulled back, releasing his hold on Jazz’s intake, drawing his hand from his brother’s valve, left him trembling and aching on the precipice of an overload.   
  
“Close your panels,” Ricochet said.   
  
Jazz startled and looked at him over his shoulder, visor streaked white.   
  
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”   
  
There was a moment, but the distinct click of a panel sliding shut filled the room. Jazz peeled his fingers from the shelves. He turned toward Ricochet, his expression wrecked and haunted. He looked good enough to eat.   
  
Ricochet grabbed his chin and pulled him into a kiss, his denta leaving marks behind. Something else for Bluestreak to read.   
  
Jazz moaned into the kiss, and chased after him when Ricochet pulled back, but he didn’t relent. He kept his grip on Jazz’s chin, held him firm.   
  
“Go,” he said. “Talk to Bluestreak. Don’t come back to me until you do.”   
  
Jazz’s field flashed, startled. “What?”   
  
“You heard me.” Ricochet let him go, took a step back though there wasn’t much room to be had in the supply closet. “Talk to him. Because yer not gettin’ back in my berth until ya do.”   
  
“Seriously?” Jazz frowned, and his armor jittered. His hands formed fists, his vents coming in sharp gasps, his field carrying the tang of denied overload.   
  
Ricochet gripped him by the upper arm, whirled him toward the door, slammed Jazz’s back against it. His brother’s engine revved, and a moan clawed out the back of his intake. He wanted to be mechhandled.   
  
“Since when am I not?” Ricochet growled. He squeezed, hard enough to make a point, Jazz’s arm creaking. “Get out of here.” He let Jazz go.   
  
He didn’t push Jazz out the door, but he would if he had to.   
  
Jazz glared at him, jaw set, field afuzz with anger and arousal and -- yeah, that was definitely fear in there. Ricochet knew exactly what he was afraid of.   
  
But they weren’t cowards.   
  
“Frag you,” Jazz hissed, and he slammed the door open and stalked out, letting it bang shut behind him.   
  
Primus.   
  
Ricochet groaned and palmed the door, leaning hard against it, his spike popping free not a moment too soon. His hand curled around it, stroking himself in fast, desperate pumps, ecstasy buzzing at the base of his spinal strut.   
  
Blurr in the medcenter and Jazz off to solve things with Bluestreak. He hated taking care of things himself.   
  
He spent against the back of the door, transfluid leaving a spatter in several heavy pulses.   
  
Bah, the sacrifices he made for family.   
  


***

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Whipstrike’s dead, I really didn’t need an escort,” Blurr said as Ricochet trailed him into the apartment, peering over and around his shoulder. Did he expect another assassin to leap out of the shadows?  
  
The stench of paint hit his nasal sensors as the overhead lights flickered on. Blurr gave it a quick glance. He couldn’t tell there’d been a fight at all. The damaged furniture was gone and replaced. His floor and walls had been scrubbed and painted. His security system had been uninstalled, reinstalled, and reprogrammed.   
  
Even the outside hall looked brand new. His neighbors had moved out, but Blurr couldn’t blame them. It was dangerous living next to a Wrecker.   
  
Blurr dropped his crate on the floor and nudged it to the side, out of the way. He’d go through it later. He wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with the supplies inside it.   
  
“This ain’t about needing an escort,” Ricochet said. He had a crate tucked under one arm, not that Blurr had any idea what was in it. “I’m moving in.”   
  
Blurr cycled his optics. He turned toward Ricochet as the door closed behind the other mech. “This is news to me.”   
  
“You think I’m gonna leave ya alone to take care of my sparkling?” Ricochet snorted and strode in as if the apartment was already his, making a beeline for Blurr’s berthroom. “Frag that. I’m gonna do my part, Zippy. I’m in it to win.”   
  
Win what?   
  
Blurr frowned and followed him into the berthroom. Ricochet dropped the crate on the berth and surveyed the space before throwing open the cabinet and shifting things around -- clearing himself a shelf, Blurr realized.   
  
“And if I say no?” Blurr asked.   
  
Ricochet moved from crate to the shelf, carrying some datapads, a polishing kit, a few odds and ends. “Are ya?”   
  
Blurr sucked on his bottom lip. He leaned against the door jamb, folded his arms, watched Ricochet unpack like it was a given. Wondered how someone could say they were moving in when all they had was a crate.   
  
“If it’s for the sparkling, then you can sleep on the couch.” Blurr’s insides twisted and churned, and he wasn’t sure he could identify the reasons why. “Better yet, I’ll get a collapsible berth and set it up in the main room.”   
  
“It’s not just for the sparkling.” Ricochet pulled the last thing out of the crate then popped a button with his elbow, causing it to fold in on itself, until it was small and flat. “I shielded ya before I knew about my bitlet.”   
  
“Because you were supposed to be my bodyguard.”   
  
Ricochet closed the cabinet doors and cocked his head, his expression unreadable. “Ya think I’m so honorable I’d die for a favor?”   
  
That was a trick question. Either Blurr believed him to lack any honor altogether, or he was an honorable mech. Either he did it because he lacked honor but cared for Blurr, or did it because he was a good mech.   
  
No matter how Blurr looked at it, his assessment of Ricochet skewed.   
  
“Yer gonna need help,” Ricochet said without waiting for Blurr to answer. He picked up the folded crate and shoved it under the berth. Blurr would be moving it later. “Runnin’ the bar. Takin’ care of yerself. Watchin’ the sparkling. And I mean to do it.”   
  
Blurr squared his jaw. He hunched his shoulders before letting them sink again. “Since when are you the kind of mech who wants that kind of thing?”   
  
Ricochet took a look around the room before dusting his hands. He closed the distance between them, and Blurr tried to shake off the sensation he was being hunted.   
  
“You make a lot of assumptions for someone who used to be a shallow piece of tinplate,” Ricochet said. He crowded against Blurr, the heat of him unfairly enticing. “You have no idea what I want.”   
  
Blurr lifted his chin. “I can hazard a guess.” He pulled his lips into a smirk, because there was absolutely one thing he was certain Ricochet wanted from him.   
  
Ricochet chuckled, and he rested his hand on Blurr’s hip, fingers curling inward, gripping, a touch possessive. “I’m only transparent in some things.” His other hand curved around Blurr’s jaw, thumb sweeping up and over his bottom lip. “Wanna frag?”   
  
“Seriously?” Blurr’s spark startled, but his array had no such compunctions. It stirred, heating and slicking, his field sizzling where it met Ricochet’s.   
  
“It’s the part we’re good at.” Ricochet cocked his head to the side, and his grin did unfair things to Blurr’s internals.   
  
He unconsciously licked his lips. He leaned into Ricochet’s touch, spark pounding far too fast for his comfort. He wanted to scowl at how easy it was to want Ricochet.   
  
Fine. He didn’t like talking either. The less they talked, the easier it was.   
  
So he unfolded his arms, he grabbed Ricochet, and he yanked him into a kiss, his mouth crashing against Ricochet’s, throwing all ideas of softness out the window. Softness was for emotions Blurr wasn’t supposed to carry for a mech who should only be a fling, not someone Blurr could rely on or keep.   
  
Ricochet growled into his mouth and grabbed Blurr by the waist. He yanked him closer, taking control of the kiss faster than Blurr could blink. His field rose and crashed over Blurr’s, a tidal wave of desire.   
  
Blurr groaned, and Ricochet hefted him like he didn’t weigh a thing, his hands on Blurr’s aft, and Blurr winding his legs around Ricochet’s waist. His valve panel scraped over Ricochet’s spike cover, and Blurr shivered as the vibrations echoed through his array.   
  
He expected to be slammed against the wall, and he’d have been fine with that. Instead, Ricochet whirled them around and dumped Blurr onto the berth, grabbing his hands and pinning them above his head. His bulk trapped Blurr, and it should have frightened him.   
  
His spark raced with delight.   
  
Ricochet stared at him, his field blanketing Blurr’s with intent. Blurr squirmed under that stare, but Ricochet’s weight kept him trapped.  
  
“What?” Blurr demanded, his face heating.   
  
Ricochet broke into a slow grin. “I’m gonna make you scream for me,” he purred, and covered Blurr’s mouth with his own, glossa plunging inside, his hips rocking and grinding down.  
  
Blurr moaned, head tipping back, thighs tightening around Ricochet’s waist. He rocked up to meet Ricochet, the scrape of metal on metal vibrating through his array. His valve heated, lubricant gathering to coat his lining, his spike pulsing a lazy rhythm in its sheath.   
  
The kiss was over too quickly.   
  
Mouth and denta moved on to Blurr’s throat, sucking and biting against his cables, dragging charge from his substructure. Blurr squirmed, but Ricochet’s hands held tight.   
  
Until they didn’t. Until he let go of Blurr’s wrists and grabbed Blurr’s hips instead.   
  
“Open,” he demanded, his voice a heavy growl, his visor a deep, hungry amber.   
  
Blurr’s panel snapped aside, lubricant glistening around the rim. He felt like prey in the gaze of a predator, and there was something in the weight of Ricochet’s gaze. It was different. Not a bad different either.   
  
Blurr shivered.   
  
“I’m not screaming yet,” he challenged, if only to ignore the way his spark was throb-throbbing in his chassis.   
  
“I haven’t gotten started.” Ricochet tightened his grip. He lifted as he held Blurr’s gaze, and his mouth.   
  
Oh, Primus, his mouth.   
  
It fell on Blurr’s valve like he was a treat needing to be devoured. Long, savoring licks. Taut, hot pulls on his anterior node until it felt like the pleasure was being sucked out of Blurr. The pressure of denta around his nub, to the point of pain but never beyond it. Deep, deep curls of Ricochet’s glossa, careful suckles of his rim.   
  
Blurr whimpered. He honest to Primus whimpered and fisted the covers, hips wanting to buck, but caught in Ricochet’s grip. His ankles drummed a rhythm on Ricochet’s back as he gasped.   
  
Ricochet’s mouth latched on his valve, glossa plunging deep, denta scraping roughly over his nub. His valve clenched on nothing, inner nodes desperate for stimulation, while his nub swelled and pulsed, growing hot and needy.   
  
“Please,” Blurr said, hating himself for begging, but hating even more the idea of being left like this, panting and dripping and desperate to be filled.   
  
Ricochet growled and laughed against his valve. He licked, and licked, and licked, the tip of his glossa a fleeting pleasure over Blurr’s nub. He twitched, writhing under the attention, and when Ricochet wrapped his lips around Blurr’s anterior node and sucked, Blurr wailed.   
  
He curled forward, inward, frame thrashing in an overload that seemed to steal his vents, sending a flashfire of electric charge through his lines. His world went static gray, and he might have screamed, he wasn’t sure, because it all whited out to pleasure.   
  
He came back to the berth with Ricochet over him, their fingers interlocked, Ricochet kissing him and tasting like Blurr. His hips worked urgently at Blurr’s, spike slip-sliding in Blurr’s lubricant, and taunting the plump swells of his valve. Ricochet was rigid, throbbing, and his kisses were molten bites of need.   
  
Blurr opened to him, canting his hips upward, and moaning when Ricochet slammed into him, valve still quivering from the remnants of overload. Blurr’s engine roared, and he arched his backstrut, trying to urge Ricochet deeper, ankles crossing behind Ricochet’s back. There was another overload, and he sped toward it like the finish line of a race, hips pumping, vents roaring, cooling fans spinning fast enough to create a friction all their own.   
  
Ricochet’s pleasure rose and crashed around him, battering at the vibrations of Blurr’s field until it found the right harmony. He nosed his way to Blurr’s intake, lips and denta leaving marks behind, as Ricochet always seemed so intent on doing.   
  
“Mine,” Ricochet growled, and the claim in it set Blurr’s spark to racing. “You and the bitlet, Blurr. Mine.”   
  
Blurr squeezed his fingers around Ricochet’s, tightening his thighs, their frames rocking and crashing against the berth. He ought to protest, he knew. He didn’t belong to anyone, especially someone who thought they could lay a claim without asking.   
  
But his spark throbbed without his permission. His frame yielded, valve rippling with intent, inviting Ricochet inside. Pleasure built up inside him again, knotting at the base of his spinal strut, and churning into a coil of relentless need.   
  
Ecstasy snatched him up and tossed him into a storm. Blurr whimpered as it flashed through his frame, setting his sensory net aflame. The hot splash of Ricochet’s overload reignited his lining nodes, peeling another overload from his frame.   
  
Ricochet’s mouth covered his, swallowing the noisy keens threatening to spill free. The kiss was rough, still tasting of Blurr’s own lubricant, but it softened by degrees, as Ricochet gently ground into him, extending Blurr’s overload. His fingers flexed around Blurr’s, his field less a chaotic whirl and more a wrapping warmth.   
  
It was kind of nice.   
  
“Mine,” Ricochet said against his lips.   
  
“You haven’t earned it yet,” Blurr retorted, but he rocked back against Ricochet, their arrays pinging charge between node and sensor, enough to keep a light buzz of arousal steady in his groin.   
  
“Then I will.” Ricochet kissed the corner of his mouth, then the curve of his jaw, glossa following as though he wanted to taste every inch of Blurr. “Though I already know I don’t need to.” He chuckled, the dark purr of it rolling over Blurr.   
  
He nosed into Blurr’s intake, licked over the bites he’d left behind, and Blurr shivered. It was too easy, to fall into this pleasure. Too easy to shutter his optics, moan, and let Ricochet bring him off again. And again. And again.   
  
He pushed away the other thoughts. The reminders that every overload tied him further to Ricochet, tied the bitlet growing inside him to his sire. Every time he took Ricochet into his berth, was another time Blurr didn’t say ‘no’. Was another time he didn’t push Ricochet out of his life like he ought to.   
  
He didn’t want to   
  
He wanted to kiss Ricochet, to roll him over and ride him until an overload left him gasping and exhausted, until the memories of nearly dying in his own apartment fell to the pits of his memory core. He suddenly wanted that perfect family life he’d never before contemplated.   
  
He seriously considered it.   
  
And then he chased the thought away for the morning.He didn’t want to think. He wanted to enjoy.   
  
Right now, that was more than enough.   
  


~

  
  
"I think that dark cloud in the corner belongs to you," Riptide said with a non-subtle nudge to Bluestreak's shoulder.   
  
Bluestreak followed the nudge to the darkest, most solitary corner available in New Maccadam’s. Jazz hunched there, back wedged into the corner to allow him the best view of the bar, an array of empty cubes scattered across the table in front of him like fallen soldiers.   
  
What fresh Pit had Ricochet sent him now? And how had Bluestreak not noticed Jazz before? How long had he been here? Why wasn’t he at the medcenter with Blurr and his twin?   
  
Bluestreak sighed, and kept scrubbing the tumblers. "It's almost time to close anyway. Leave him to me. I'll take care of it."   
  
"That's what I was gonna do anyway." Riptide chuckled and grabbed the crate of washed and dried dishes. "Good luck." They rattled as he carried it off to be put away.   
  
There were only a few scattered patrons in the bar. It was very, very late on a busy night. Bluestreak was tired, his feet ached, and someone had gotten a good grope on his sensory panel before Bluestreak could toss him out. He didn't have the mental capacity to deal with the dark cloud building up a storm in the corner.   
  
He couldn't leave Jazz there either.   
  
So he finished the dishes, stacked them for Riptide to stow, and grabbed a meshcloth to wipe down the tables. He waved goodbye to Snarl and Slag, both of whom pinged him a hefty tip, and dug in his archives for a comm code he'd acquired by perhaps illegal means.   
  
"He ain't my problem until he stops bein' yours," was the way Ricochet answered his comm, sounding half-asleep and smug and satisfied.   
  
He was probably in the berth with Blurr. Well, at least someone had a good night.   
  
"Come get him. He's overcharged," Bluestreak said.   
  
"No."   
  
"Ricochet--"   
  
"Look, kid, you two are gratin' on my last bit of patience," Ricochet hissed, and something in his tone suggested he was trying to keep it down.   
  
Bluestreak squared his jaw, though Ricochet couldn't see it. "You can't push him into something he's not ready for."   
  
"I can do whatever the slag I want, he's my twin." Ricochet's anger vibrated through the comm. "I know him better than you ever will. Now I'm givin' you a chance here. Don't screw it up."   
  
The comm went dead.   
  
Subsequent attempts to ping Ricochet were immediately shunted off to his mailbox. Bluestreak suspected Ricochet had done the same thing to any pings from his brother.   
  
He sighed again. He wiped the tables and lifted the chairs so Riptide could activate the auto-vacuum. Riptide escorted out the last few customers and locked the door. He left Jazz to stew in the corner.   
  
Bluestreak cut off the music and dimmed the lights. He sent Riptide over to clear Jazz's table, and was relieved when Jazz surrendered all but his current cube without a fuss. Clearly, Riptide was relieved, too.   
  
Bluestreak restocked. Riptide vacuumed. Jazz didn't pay them any mind, though sometimes Bluestreak caught him watching.   
  
They split the tip pool evenly, and Bluestreak let Riptide go, promising to lock up. He mailed off the days wages and earnings in a report to Blurr's inbox, and girded his metaphorical loins.   
  
Off-shift now, Bluestreak drew himself a cube of mild engex and headed to Jazz's table. There was something intimate about the quiet, the whisper of sound, the dimmed lights. Jazz was almost invisible, his biolights cut to spy-dark and his paint-nanites echoing it.   
  
"How overcharged are you?" Bluestreak asked as he slid into the seat next to Jazz. He reached out with his field, just for a taste, and nearly recoiled at the miasma of indistinguishable emotions boiling under the surface.   
  
"Not overcharged enough." Jazz raised his last cube and took a hearty swig of it. "How's your panel?"   
  
"I've been groped before. I'll live." He shouldn't be surprised Jazz had seen that. Jazz seemed to see everything. Except the obvious. "Don't kill him."   
  
Jazz quirked a grin behind the cube. "Would I do that?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
Jazz snorted and slanted him a look. "Ya know me that well, do ya?"   
  
Bluestreak worked his jaw and finished his engex in a quick swallow. He was tired. His processor ached, and Ricochet just dumped a mess in his lap he wasn't mentally equipped to deal with politely right now.   
  
Jazz was angling for a fight, and Bluestreak knew it.   
  
He stood up, taking his empty cube and grabbing Jazz's half-full one, twisting away before Jazz could snatch it back.   
  
"You're done.” Bluestreak slipped out of the booth, taking both dirtied cubes to be washed. As expected, Jazz gave chase.   
  
"Ya don't get to tell me when I'm done," he snapped.   
  
Bluestreak tumbled the cubes into the sink, hoping they wouldn't break, and whirled, nabbing Jazz's wrist before the fist could make contact. He squeezed, just enough to warn. Jazz wasn't the only dangerous person around here who didn't look like it.   
  
"Yes, I do," Bluestreak said, calm and careful. He tugged until Jazz made contact against him, glaring up at him. "Because that's what you want me to do, only you're too much of a coward to say it. I know it. You know it. Ricochet knows it. That's why he threw you out."   
  
Jazz set his jaw. "You don't know a thing about us." He turned to look away.   
  
Bluestreak snatched his chin with his free hand and forced Jazz to face him. "You look at me when I'm talking to you.” He made his voice firm. Demanding. He spoke like someone used to being obeyed, and expected it.   
  
Jazz visibly and tangibly shivered, the undercurrents of lust in his field pulling to the forefront. He yearned. Bluestreak could practically taste it.   
  
"Tell me I'm wrong," Bluestreak said.   
  
Jazz's silence spoke volumes.   
  
"You can't," Bluestreak continued, and he kept his grip on Jazz's chin, though he let his thumb stroke the curve of Jazz's jaw. Jazz leaned into the touch. "Not without lying, and you know lying to me is useless. A stranger can't lie to me. You don't have an inkling of a chance."   
  
Jazz swallowed. His intake bobbed. His glossa swept over his lips. "Then do it already." His field thickened, hot and clingy. "If you know so much. Stop playin' games. Stop stringin' me along."   
  
"That's not the way this works." Bluestreak leaned in close enough to feel Jazz's ex-vents against his cheek. "You want something, you tell me. That's the rule. I don't take what's not being explicitly offered. I'll give you whatever you want, but you have to ask for it."   
  
Jazz shuddered. Fear wisped through his field.   
  
"I will take you," Bluestreak murmured. He held Jazz's face in both hands now, forcing Jazz to look at him. "I will break you. I will heal you. I will hurt you, and I will soothe you."   
  
Jazz's armor clattered. His visor dimmed. "Blue--"  
  
"I will hold you, I will keep you, I will own you, I will make you mine." Bluestreak stroked his thumbs over Jazz's cheeks, softening his tone but not the command in it. "I will love you. But you have to say it, Jazz.  _Say it_."   
  
The field that struck Bluestreak's was as much a torrent of emotion as it had been before. Jazz's hands drew into fists, his glossa sweeping over his lips again. Words crackled in his intake. Fear swirled a nauseating green beneath it all.   
  
Bluestreak knew the weight of what he was asking for. He did it anyway. That was the only way this could work.   
  
Jazz sucked in an unsteady ventilation. "I..." Static broke his voice apart, and he abruptly grabbed Bluestreak's arms, holding on tight enough to make his armor creak. "I want it, Blue. I want it so much. All of it. All of you. Everything ya said, I want--" He broke off, and held tighter, like it physically pained him. "Blue, please."   
  
"Shhh."   
  
Bluestreak brought their mouths together, lips barely touching before he deepened it into a kiss. He kept it gentle, because he knew Jazz thought it should hurt, and felt Jazz shake in his hold. Being given that much trust should be treated for the fragile, valuable thing it was, and Bluestreak knew better than to tarnish it.   
  
“I hear you,” Bluestreak murmured against his lips, and Jazz shuddered in his arms, a sound like a keen dying in his intake. His field crashed on a shore, and radiated slow curls of relief and desperate hope.   
  
It was a precious gift Bluestreak intended to savor.   
  
"Come on." Bluestreak pressed their foreheads together. "Let's get you home."  
  
"With you?" Jazz's tone edged hope and wickedness.   
  
Bluestreak smiled and pulled back, enough to see the light returning to Jazz's visor. "To recharge," he said. "Nothing else."   
  
"That's not fair," Jazz said, with a quiet sigh, his head tilting into Bluestreak's hand. "You're gonna keep me waitin'?"   
  
"Yes." Bluestreak patted him on the cheek before releasing his hold, gently disengaging Jazz from his arms as well. "Because you've consumed more engex than I'm comfortable with, and the first time I claim you, it's going to be with a clear head from both of us."   
  
Jazz scowled, and it had no business being adorable on a mech who was older than him, more trained, and a noted assassin. But it was.   
  
"I've snuck into enemy bases drunker than this."   
  
"And we're going to talk about how much that worries me." Bluestreak grabbed Jazz's hand, tangling their fingers together. He pushed one cube into Jazz's free hand and carried the other, towing Jazz to first the sink and then to the backdoor, flicking light switches as he passed.   
  
"We're going to negotiate, we're going to discuss, and we're going to have a contract," Bluestreak continued as he urged Jazz out of the door before him. He paused to activate the alarm system with a few quick key presses.   
  
"I don't need a contract," Jazz said with an exasperated huff.   
  
"I do." Bluestreak gave him a stern look. "It's not negotiable. We can always adjust and re-discuss and re-evaluate, but we're going to have a contract, or we have nothing at all."   
  
Jazz folded his arms and set his jaw, his gaze going distant. "Fine." His armor slicked tight to his frame, a sense of discomfort radiating beneath the tentative excitement.   
  
His fear of anything real was not something he'd abandon after a single conversation. Especially not one where both of them were under the influence.   
  
"That's what it takes to be with me, Jazz," Bluestreak said, but he was careful to keep his tone soft, rather than commanding. "I'm not the others. I have a code. I'll never hurt you, except the way you want me to, and only if I fully understand what that entails. I'll stop if you tell me to, and you'd better do it. I want a partnership."   
  
Jazz's engine revved. "That doesn't make any fragging sense. How can you have a partnership when we won't be equal?"   
  
Bluestreak's spark squeezed. "You have a lot of misconceptions about the way this works. And your brother is an aft for not trying to fix that, even if he does have insight into your spark that others don't." He moved closer, crowded into Jazz's space, and was relieved to capture Jazz's full attention with such a little motion.   
  
Jazz's arms dropped. He tilted his chin up, submitting in all but the set of his gaze, defiant and challenging. It brought into full view the mark on his intake, the perfect outline of a set of denta.   
  
It was a reminder.   
  
Bluestreak acknowledged said reminder with a stroke of his finger. Jazz shivered under his fingertip, his field clinging stickily -- needily -- to Bluestreak's. Ricochet had sent him out like this, hungry and unbalanced.   
  
Bluestreak did not approve. He understood why. He wasn't an idiot. But it was quite clear that he and Ricochet had different ideas of what it meant to lead.   
  
"I'm going to tell you a secret," Bluestreak murmured as he stroked that bite and felt Jazz relax by degrees. "I want this to work. I want you. I've wanted you for a long, long time. I want you so much that I want you right, or not at all."  
  
"Primus." Jazz shuddered. He worked his intake. "That's -- That's a lot, Blue. I don't know what to do with all that."   
  
"I'm not asking you to figure it out right now. I'm just letting you know." Bluestreak stroked his intake one more time before he took his hand back. "Come on. You need to recharge and so do I. I've been working all day. I've been groped -- no killing! -- and I've got to come back in the morning and receive the deliveries since I'm pretty sure Blurr's not going to be here to do it."   
  
Jazz peered at him before threading his elbow through Bluestreak’s and tugging him in the direction of Bluestreak’s apartment -- of course he knew where it was. “Are ya sure about the no killin’ part? Because I’m pretty sure no one would miss that slagger.”   
  
Bluestreak laughed, his spark warming from the inside out. “I’m sure.” He lightly touched Jazz’s field with his own. “But still no.”   
  
“Ah, you take the fun out of things.” Jazz chuckled and leaned in closer, his field answering Bluestreak’s with affection. “But I think I’m gonna be okay with that.”   
  
Maybe Bluestreak owed Ricochet a drink after all.  
  
Only time would tell.   
  


***


	15. Chapter 15

Jazz didn't wake suffering the consequences of his overindulgence, but he wished he had. Perhaps then Bluestreak would have taken mercy on him, rather than tumbling a handful of datapads into his arms two blinks after he'd onlined and tried to roll over to give Bluestreak a very good morning. 

Bluestreak wasn't there. 

He'd gotten out of the berth before Jazz. He'd washed up without asking for Jazz's assistance. Now he sat in a chair, sipping on a cube of energon, watching. 

"How much do you remember?" he asked. His tone was light, but cautious. His field was nonexistent, held as tightly to his frame as the near-defensive clamp of his armor. 

Jazz sat up and scrubbed the sleep from his visor. "Everything." 

Bluestreak visibly relaxed. "Good." He stood up, pulling a cube from subspace and handing it to Jazz first, before three datapads hit the berth beside him. "If you're serious, that's where we start." 

"What're these?" Jazz set the cube aside and picked up the first datapad. It seemed to be some kind of guide? An interfacing guide? Jazz's draw dropped. "Blue, I'm experienced. I don't need--"

"Yes, you do." Bluestreak sat on the edge of the berth and tapped the datapad. "This is about the kind of relationship you want with me. It's about dominance and submission, about safe and consensual play, about the various kinks and plays. It's a comprehensive overview." 

Jazz worked his jaw. He looked at Bluestreak, then the datapad, then Bluestreak again. "I have to read these?" 

"I'd like you to." 

Jazz sucked on his bottom lip. He skimmed the first few pages. Something in the verbiage was familiar. "Wait. Did you write these?"

"That one, yeah." Bluestreak scrubbed the back of his neck, sensory panels twitching, and for once, he looked like the bashful, young mech a lot of others mistook him for. "It's a summary of the other one, so if you want more details or explanation, go to that one. But I figured I'm more likely to get you to read a shorter version of it." He scrubbed one hand down his thigh. "The last datapad is the contract I'd like to offer, and all the places you can agree, disagree, change, et cetera. But read this one first." He leaned over and tapped the datapad in Jazz's hand. 

"Wow." Jazz started a slow smile. It had been ages since he'd heard Bluestreak babble like that, and it was as adorable now as it had been the first time Prowl had introduced them. "Now I feel like an aft."

"Why?" 

Jazz set the datapad aside and scooted closer to Bluestreak, reaching out with his field to gently touch Bluestreak's. "Because here I am chasin' after ya like a spark in heat, thinkin' you were just bein' a tease, when the truth is that you were treatin' me like somethin' special, somethin' worth an extra effort." 

"Because you are." 

Jazz swallowed over a lump in his throat, through a tightness in his vents. "Well, that's debatable." He worked his jaw for a moment. "You know Blurr's sparked, right?" 

Bluestreak tilted his head. "I don't know what that has to do with anything, but yeah." 

"Could be mine." Jazz shrugged, tried to play it off as something inconsequential, though it was far from it. "Probably Ricochet's, but you know, we're twins, so we'll never really know." He spread his hands. "But that's what I am, Blue. I'm not-- I don't--" 

He couldn't find the words. Why was this so fragging hard? Maybe because in the face of Bluestreak's genuine care, he didn't want to let Blue down. He felt like he already had. 

"We've been friends a long time." Bluestreak's hand covered his, their fingers tangling together. "I know who you are, and I know what you are, and I decided a long time ago, I wanted you. I don't care if the bitlet might be yours, and I know there are times you won't be with me, because you'll be with Ricochet. I don't want you to change." 

Jazz gnawed on his bottom lip, hard enough to taste energon, unable to meet Bluestreak's gaze. "I'm a mess." 

"Join the club." Bluestreak laughed quietly, and his field reached out, offering comfort where it slid against Jazz's own. "Look. If you read the datapad and the contract, maybe you'll understand what I want better. But I promise, I only want what you're willing to give me." 

Jazz lifted his head, Bluestreak close enough that the heat of their frames mingled. He smelled freshly clean, and Jazz wanted to lick him so much. "What if I wanted a kiss?" 

"I can do that." 

Jazz's spark throbbed. He put the datapads in his subspace, for later perusal. 

"What if I wanted you to touch me?" Jazz rose up on his knees and leaned in, watching Bluestreak's optics get dark and hungry. "What if I wanted you inside me?" 

He swung his leg over, straddling Bluestreak before he could convince himself otherwise, his knees hugging Bluestreak's hips. 

"Would you give me that?" Jazz asked, his lips inches away from Bluestreak's. 

A low growl echoed in Bluestreak's engine. "Yes." He grabbed Jazz's hips, pulled him in until their frames notched together perfectly. 

Jazz groaned, his panel jittering in place. He threw his hands over Bluestreak's shoulders, and licked his lips. "Now?" 

"No." Bluestreak sighed, and it sounded genuinely disappointed. He shuttered his optics, pressed his forehead to Jazz's. "Primus help me, but not yet. Not until you read the contract and understand.” 

Frustration gnawed at him, but Jazz swallowed it down. This was important to Bluestreak, and he didn't want to belittle that. 

"A kiss then," Jazz said, because he couldn't resist a push. "You've given me that before." 

Bluestreak laughed. "You are going to be impossible to tame," he said before his mouth crashed over Jazz's, the kiss fierce and desperate, tasting of energon and other things. 

Jazz moaned and gave into it, opening his mouth to the plunge of Bluestreak's glossa, to the sweep of it inside his mouth as if mapping out the contours and staking claim. It sent sparks shattering across Jazz's sensornet, his spark throbbing with need. 

He'd read the damn datapad. He'd read the contract. He'd sign any dotted line Bluestreak put in front of him, so long as he could keep this. 

It was all he'd ever wanted. 

~

Ricochet moved in. 

And then he never left. 

Blurr functioned as if he expected the ball to drop at any moment. He waited to come home and find out Ricochet wasn't the family sort, and he didn't want the shackle Blurr had growing in his gestational chamber. 

But Ricochet stayed. He started working at the bar which saved Blurr from having to hire another mech. He wasn't much for personality, but he cleaned and mixed engex and bounced rowdy customers and that was enough. For now anyway. Blurr would still need to find someone he trusted to take on a secondary ownership once the sparkling was born. 

That solution came to him a few weeks later. 

Springer woke from his coma, much to the relief of the entire Wrecker community, and after Whipstrike's death, they all considered it something of a celebration. Blurr's inbox was bombarded with requests to host said celebration at New Maccadam’s, and he couldn't think of a reason to decline. Save that Wreckers tended to be rowdy and noisy and break things when too heavily intoxicated. 

Drift offered to sponsor the celebration, out of guilt Blurr suspected, though Whipstrike being triggered by his happiness was hardly his fault. Blurr informed him he'd be billed for broken property. Drift laughed and said, "Is it a party if nothing breaks?" 

With that promise, Blurr relented. 

He planned the party. He closed New Maccadam’s on a slow night for a private celebration to cut down on the chaos. He gave Riptide the night off, and asked Bluestreak to work with the promise of a bonus. He'd told Ricochet to stay home, go elsewhere, but it didn't stick, and Blurr ended up with a Ricochet-shaped shadow. 

He'd done his best to hide his sparking, save from a select few. Jazz knew. Bluestreak knew. Prowl figured it out all on his own. Blurr, however, wasn't ready for the questions and the congratulations and the nosiness. But as time passed, it grew harder to hide the changes to his frame. 

He was lithe by design, meant to be light and fast, meant to chart a course and lightning-flash through it. He wasn't built to comfortably carry a growing gestational tank. He started to show, obvious to those who knew, but still enough to hide. 

And then it was obvious, and he couldn't hide anymore. Gone were the sleek, sharp lines of his Racer frame. Now he was soft, rounding at the abdomen, internals shifting aside, plating adjusting to accommodate the growing bitlet. 

He hated it. 

The added weight slowed him down. The swell of his abdomen marked him as vulnerable. He was a mech used to stares and drawing attention, but not for this. 

It didn't help that Ricochet strutted around like a mech who'd accomplished something. He acted like sparking Blurr was a badge of honor, and Blurr started wearing his bites in more places than his intake. Staking a claim, he supposed. If he didn't like it so much, he'd protest, but in the heat of the moment, damn if the bites didn't make him go off like a rocket. 

Peace-time had dulled the Wreckers. They were still loud and they took up a lot of space, and they tried to drink Blurr's bar dry. 

Their rowdiness had calmed, however. They sat around the tables in various clumps, with Springer the mech of honor in the middle, and a pile of id chips nearby -- for all those gone. 

There were a lot of chips. Wreckers didn't have a long life expectancy. 

"Makes ya wonder, don't it?" Top Spin asked as he spun his cube around and around without spilling a drop. "What other grudge is gonna come out of the woodwork to pick us off." 

Blurr didn't want to think about that. It had been a long, long war and there were a lot of grievances on both sides. The treaty had spared the sparks of many a villain, and that hadn't settled well with many victims. But short of reigniting the war, there was no recourse to be had. 

They'd all been hurt. They'd survived, for a certain definition of the word.

"We always knew we were on borrowed time," Twin Twist said, and it was with a lazy grin and a sparkle of blue optics as he saluted them all. "Anything post-war is a surprise anyway." 

It was a remarkably fatalistic way to view things, but then, Wreckers were meant to be expendable. They weren't meant to survive. 

Blurr wondered what that said about himself that he'd signed up for such a team willingly. 

"I always heard Wreckers liked to party," Ricochet murmured as he stepped up behind Blurr, his arm going around Blurr's waist, palm cupping the swell of his abdomen. "Guess the stories were a little off." He nuzzled into the side of Blurr's neck, licking over one of the bites he left last night. 

Blurr let it go for a few seconds before he squirmed out of Ricochet's hold. He didn't want to call any attention to them. 

"This is less of a celebration and more of a wake, I guess," Blurr said. He didn't think that was what the intention had been, but that was the way it turned out. 

"Maybe they're just not drunk enough." 

Blurr snorted. "Maybe."

“You gonna bring those drinks anytime soon?” Whirl hollered from the furthest table out, waving one hand in wild notice. He seemed pretty happy for a mech who was only out for the day because Cyclonus promised to look out for him. 

Said mech, by the way, kept to himself in the corner. He had his own engex, and a datapad and seemed content to keep his distance from the party going on centerstage. Blurr caught him occasionally glancing at Whirl, keeping an optic on him, before he went back to reading. 

Cyclonus was a strange, strange mech. His and Whirl’s friendship was even stranger. 

Ricochet slid back in against Blurr's back, pressing a kiss to his audial. "Better get a move on, Zippy. Or they’re gonna start stormin’ the castle." He gave Blurr's aft a little pat before he reached on the other side of him to grab the tray, whisking it out from under Blurr’s grip. 

Blurr didn’t bother to argue. 

“You’ll get them when I say you’ll get them!” Blurr shouted back, but he smiled, completely derailing the irritation he should have offered back. 

Drift slid into view, sword rattling on his back, the gem in the hilt giving a quiet hum. Apparently, de-arming in a post-war Cybertron did not include leaving Great Swords at home. 

“How’re you doing?” he asked without any preamble, which was his standard greeting here lately. 

Guilty waters ran deep, Blurr thought with a sigh. Though Drift had nothing to be guilty about. 

“I’m swelling into a balloon, and I’m slower than I’ve ever been in my entire functioning,” Blurr said as he pulled out a meshcloth and idly wiped down an already clean counter. He needed something to do with his hands. “I’ve got an ex-Decepticon living in my apartment and sleeping in my berth, and I still need to find someone to hire before this bitlet decides to show up.” 

Drift braced one elbow on the counter and planted his chin on the heel of his hand. “Some of that will solve itself. Ricochet is here to stay, if you ask me. And as for the rest, I might have a solution.” 

Blurr lifted an orbital ridge. “I’m listening.” 

"Me." 

The other orbital ridge lifted. Blurr's hand stilled on the counter. "Say what?" 

"I could help," Drift said and braced his elbows on the edge, leaning forward. "It's not like I'm doing anything else, and I think if I keep loitering around the medical center, Ratchet's going to take a restraining order out against me." 

Blurr laughed. "You're his conjunx." 

"That doesn't mean he likes me constantly underfoot." Drift grinned, with a hint of his pointed denta, and damn if he wasn't charming. "I know how to sling engex. I can learn the rest." 

"Yeah, but..." Blurr trailed off, chewing on his bottom lip. He gave Drift a pointed look. They all had their vices. "You don't drink."

Drift rolled his optics. "I don't have to drink to be a bartender. It's not a temptation, I promise." His field tapped Blurr's with sincerity. "I just want to help, that's all. And maybe get out of Ratchet's space before he kills me." 

Blurr snorted. "All right. Fine. You really want to work here and deal with being groped and yelled at and all kinds of nosy questions, far be it from me to stop you." 

"I'm gonna put an end to that gropin'," Ricochet grumbled as he returned with the tray, this time carefully balancing empty cubes and a plate with nothing but crumbs. "Mechs need to learn to keep their hands to themselves and not be touchin' others without their permission." 

"I don't think you have any room to talk," Drift said as his gaze flicked from Blurr to Ricochet and back again. His tone noticeably cooled. He hadn't warmed up to Ricochet yet. 

Maybe they'd be friends someday. 

Ricochet chuckled and leaned in over Blurr's shoulder, arm encircling and fingers dragging up to toy with a seam. "I have permission," he said and pressed his mouth to Blurr's audial. "Don't I, Speedy?" 

"Don't call me that." He jerked an elbow back into Ricochet's chassis, but the other mech twisted out of the way too quickly. Damn spies. 

"Blurr! Get your aft over here and join us!" Top Spin shouted above the conversation. 

"Stop working for once!" Twin Twist added, and the two brothers grinned, nudging each other with their shoulders. 

"Seriously, boss, I can handle this," Bluestreak said as he came out of the back with another bottle of the Sunrise mix which hadn't been appropriately stocked. 

Someone had been in too much of a hurry to get to his date last night -- Riptide. 

Blurr balled up the meshcloth and tossed it back into the bucket of cleaning solution. "Works for me." He snatched a bottle of his favorite mid-grade and a packet of sweetener. He pointed at Drift. "Tomorrow morning. Bright and early. I'll show you around." 

Drift's grin widened into something Blurr had no trouble believing Ratchet couldn't resist. "You got it." He hopped off the stool, saluted them, and swaggered off to join the other Wreckers, everyone crowding around the largest table Blurr had in the bar. 

Before Blurr managed two steps, a hand encircled his wrist and reeled him against Ricochet's chassis. "Maybe tell him a little later than sunrise, eh?" Ricochet murmured as he nuzzled into Blurr's intake, glossa flicking over the mark on Blurr's cables. "I got plans for you." 

"And what makes you think I'm going to let you do whatever you want?" Blurr asked with a snort. He told himself to pull free of Ricochet's embrace, but his traitorous spark and array wanted to linger, soaking up the warmth and the steady buzz of desire in Ricochet's field. 

Ricochet chuckled, dark and wicked. "Because ya haven't turned me down yet." He nipped the curve of Blurr's jaw and pulled back with a smack to Blurr's aft. 

Blurr whipped around and glared, but Ricochet was already walking off, lifting a bottle of one of Blurr's cheaper, but stronger engexes and striding out from behind the bar. Beyond him, Bluestreak was studiously not looking at either of them, but there was a smirk curving his lips, and the little twitches of his sensory panels proved he'd been paying attention. 

"What?" 

"I'm keeping my opinions to myself, boss," Bluestreak said. He flashed Blurr a grin as he dumped the dirtied cups into the washer. "But if you want to hear them, just let me know. Because it's pretty obvious how gone he is over you, and how you're not much different." 

"It's convenience," Blurr said, but he wasn't sure he could convince himself of it, much less someone else. 

"Sure." Bluestreak tipped his head toward the gathered Wreckers. "Don't you have a party to get to?" 

Blurr was surrounded by a bunchy of nosy, busybodies. 

He joined the Wreckers, Bluestreak's quiet laugh chasing him out. 

~

“Prowl.” 

There was only one visitor Prowl would immediately offer his attention to. He marked his place, saved his work, and put down his stylus. 

“Yes, Prime?” He looked up without bothering to plant a false smile. Rodimus, for all that he seemed flighty, knew enough to see through it. A part of Prowl wondered if perhaps that knowledge had come along with the Matrix. 

Rodimus made a face and swept his hand over his head. “You know I hate it when anyone calls me that.” 

“It’s what you are,” Prowl said. He laced his fingers together and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?”

Rodimus leaned against the door jamb. He kicked one foot up, trying to look casual and cool. He couldn’t come into the office and sit like the average mech, no, he had to be as lackadaisical as possible. 

“You’re sure Whipstrike was working alone?” he asked. 

Prowl frowned and considered the evidence, what they’d gleaned from searching the remnants of Whipstrike’s apartment, hacking his memory core, and tracking all the datatrails of his net usage. “Yes. Why?” 

“Mechs wanna feel safe. I want to be able to tell them they are.” 

Prowl’s frown deepened. 

He looked up at Rodimus Prime, and for the first time, saw the lines of fatigue in a mech once cheerful and energetic. War had changed him. Then again, war had changed everyone. If anything had changed the mech who used to be Hot Rod, it wasn’t war, it was leadership. 

It was a heavy, heavy burden. 

Prowl didn’t want to be a leader. He was quite happy being the tactical and technical support. He was content to whisper into the audials of whoever stood as the face of Autobot command. Even if Rodimus Prime leaned more heavily on Kup and Ultra Magnus, Prowl would always be present, in the background, doing the best he could. 

“As far as I can tell, Whipstrike was acting alone on a personal vendetta,” Prowl said, carefully choosing his words. “But Prime, it was a long war. I’m sure there are many mechs who carry grudges, who are angry, who don’t feel as though they are being heard… I can’t account for those.” 

Rodimus shook his head, flinching at the title given to him. “I know that. You’re not a mind-reader or anything, sheesh.” He twisted his jaw, gaze falling to the floor. “I just wanna make a place where mechs can live and be safe.” 

“It’s a fine line, sir,” Prowl said, quietly. “We can be like the old Senate. We can be paranoid and proactive, we can spy on our citizens and try to root out potential threats.” 

“No, absolutely not. I don’t want that,” Rodimus said. He straightened, pinning Prowl with a glare. “Tell me you haven’t done it.” 

Prowl sat back in his chair. “Of course not.” He’d considered it, for a fraction of a second, because he was weak and Whipstrike was still killing, and at the time, they’d found nothing. “We don’t want to make the same mistakes. We want people to be safe, but we can’t take away their freedom to do it.” 

Rodimus nodded slowly, and he looked at Prowl, something firm in his optics. “And is that the same credo you applied to arresting Ricochet?” 

“I am not sure what you mean,” Prowl said smoothly, without so much as a flinch. He’d known Jazz had gone to Rodimus, but nothing had happened at the time. He’d been waiting for this. “The evidence--”

“Please don’t feed me the same tripe you’ve fed everyone else. No one believes it but the general public. I’m not that much of an idiot.” Rodimus lifted his orbital ridges. “For the record, your strategy worked, but I don’t want to hear about that kind of thing happening again.” 

Prowl pressed his lips together. He knew a chastisement when he saw one, though he appreciated the fact Rodimus had come to him personally rather than issuing a public reprimand. 

He tipped his head. “Yes, sir. Understood.” 

“Good.” Rodimus cycled a ventilation and unfolded his arms. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Good talk.” He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. “Anyway, as you were.” He gestured to Prowl and backed up, out of the door. “Later.” 

He left, in much the same casual, unprofessional manner in which he’d first appeared. The door slid shut behind him, closing Prowl back into the contemplative quiet of his office. 

It could have been worse. 

~

It was Top Spin who made Ricochet snap, not that anyone could tell. He knew better than to make a scene, and he had far more self-control than anyone gave him credit for. 

Blurr was a flirt. Blurr was a bartender. Blurr seemed to have no problem with mechs groping him. That was all well and good. 

Ricochet didn't like it one bit, but he swallowed the anger, swallowed the urge to haul Top Spin out of his chair and throw him out, swallowed the desire to grab Blurr and kiss him senseless so everyone knew he'd already staked a claim. 

He waited until the party was over, until the bar had been cleaned and tidied, and Bluestreak had gone home. He managed to hold it in all the way back to Blurr's apartment, despite the fact he was stupidly charmed by the happiness in Blurr's field, and the sight of Blurr's rounded abdomen, where he couldn't hide that he was carrying a sparkling. 

Ricochet's sparkling. 

Primus, he still couldn't believe it. After tonight, maybe it was too good to be true, Ricochet didn't know. But things as they stood weren't enough. 

He waited until the door shut, until Blurr dropped down into the couch and pouted adorably as he wriggled around in the cushions. "Long day," he grumbled. 

"We need to talk," Ricochet said. 

Blurr cycled his optics and looked up at him. "What?" 

"There’re some things we need ta get straight." Ricochet sat down on the table in front of Blurr, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, holding in the anger. 

Blurr frowned. He sat up, optics narrowed. "Oh?" 

Ricochet set his jaw. "I ain't leavin," he started, and he knew he had to pick his words carefully, but he didn't know if he had that much control left. "Unless you throw me out of this apartment and tell me you never want to see me again, I ain't leavin'. I'm stayin'. I'm invested. This--" He paused to gesture, to Blurr, to the bitlet, to the apartment. "This is what I want." 

"Good to know." Blurr paused, pulled in a slow vent, keeping his field out of reach, so Ricochet couldn't read it. "Was that all?" 

Ricochet scowled. "No. Tell me what you want, too." 

Blurr huffed. "Why does that matter?" 

Ricochet shot to his feet, hands curling into fists. He ventilated to swallow his anger. "Is it that hard to believe maybe I wanna know you want me, too? Maybe I wanna know how much you're investin' in this, too. Or maybe I'm just an annoyin’ block between you and someone else." 

"Ah, right. Someone else. I have lots of those." Blurr folded his arms and sat back, glaring up at Ricochet. "I don't remember us ever deciding we were exclusive. Or that we were a 'we'." 

"I'm deciding it now," Ricochet said. 

Blurr stilled. He sucked in his bottom lip and popped it out again. " _You_  are asking for a commitment?" 

"Yes." 

Ricochet forced his hands to unclench. He cycled a ventilation. He sat back down. "Yeah, I am," he added. "Except Jazz. You know he's still mine, and I'm still his. I can't help that." 

"I'm fine with Jazz," Blurr said, with a dismissive wave. He paused, and his lip curled in a smirk. "So long as that means I can play with him, too, if I want." 

"Do I get to watch?" Ricochet moved closer, pinning Blurr between his knees, his hands landing on Blurr's knees before curling around them and lifting, draping Blurr's legs over his thighs. "Maybe we put you between us again, yeah?" He crawled forward, hands sliding up those long, Racer legs to Blurr's hips, his mouth pressing a kiss to Blurr's abdomen. "Both of us in this hungry valve of yours?" One finger circled it, tasting the heat building behind Ricochet's panel. 

Blurr's ventilations hitched. His engine made a quiet whine, and his panel opened, allowing Ricochet to slip one finger into the hot slick of him. Blurr's hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in, his field shivering with arousal. 

"I think I can live with that," Blurr said, his hips rolling into the slow, steady curls of Ricochet's finger. 

"Then we have an accord?" Ricochet murmured, nudging his way to Blurr's intake, teeth grazing over cables warming from the rising arousal in Blurr's frame. The scent of his lubricant filled the space between them. "We're exclusive. You and me. No one else but Jazz." 

"You and me," Blurr agreed, and he shuddered, sinking further onto Ricochet's finger, and Ricochet was kind enough to offer a second, while bringing his thumb into play. He circled it around the swelling nub of Blurr's anterior node. "I'm yours." 

Ricochet's engine roared. "That's all I wanted to hear." 

He closed his mouth over Blurr's. He swallowed the Racer's moan of pleasure, his spark doing twirls and leaps inside his frame, and he'd pick apart what that meant later. 

Right now, he had a partner to satisfy, and that deserved every iota of his attention. 

****

 


	16. Chapter 16

Eventually, things settled.   
  
Post-war Cybertron was a Cybertron used to war and violence and danger. The fervor peaked around the time Prowl announced the perpetrator and his subsequent death. Murmurs lingered as mechs created their own wild theories, but eventually, everyone went back to their mundane lives, and Prowl could focus on the things that really mattered.   
  
He finished his reports on time, shuttling them off to Rodimus where they’d sit on the corner of the Prime’s desk collecting dust, until Ultra Magnus planted Rodimus Prime in his chair, one hand firmly on his shoulder, and told him to ‘sit’. Rodimus would pout for however long it took for Ultra Magnus to bring him a big cube of his favorite drink, and then he’d sit down and get to work.   
  
Afterward, he’d vanish to ‘discuss the current state of affairs’ with the Decepticon Emperor or whatever fancy title Starscream had given himself these days, and more connections would be made. The peace treaty would further cement itself, and Cybertron would ventilate a little easier knowing it was that much further from devolving back into war.   
  
It took careful planning. It took even more careful tugging on a few strings here, a mention there, movement of pieces on a gameboard.   
  
Prowl was not a bad mech.   
  
He was an intelligent one, perhaps devastatingly so. He was only doing what he’d been taught to do, what he’d been sparked to do.   
  
He was making Cybertron a better place, no matter what it took. He ensured a safe home for every Cybertronian on the planet.   
  
Prowl smiled to himself and pulled another datapad. This one didn’t require much on his end, just a seal of approval.   
  
He didn’t know if Bluestreak would accept it, but the offer was there. Prowl had plenty of positions open in the Enforcers, and they could certainly use good detectives. If he wanted it, of course. Maybe he was happier being freelance and serving drinks. It wasn’t Prowl’s place to judge.   
  
He’d present the opportunity and leave the rest to Bluestreak.   
  
Besides, given that a resignation had been on the datapad before it, there was plenty of room for new faces. Prowl had seen the writing on the wall. Jazz wouldn’t have been happy as an investigator for much longer anyway.   
  
Prowl stamped a glyph of approval on the application and moved it from one stack to another. He idly reached for the next and sipped on a cube of midgrade while he was at it.   
  
The world was back to normal.   
  
Just the way he liked it.   
  


~

  
  
Blurr went into labor at what was probably the most inconvenient time, depending on one's point of view. He was halfway between excited and ready to see his bitlet born because he was huge and unwieldy, and he hated it so much.   
  
He hid out at the apartment as much as possible, and while he'd expected Ricochet to make himself scarce the bigger he got, if anything Ricochet spent more time with him. He liked to reach over and palm Blurr's abdomen with a prideful smirk.   
  
It certainly hadn't ruined their interfacing, so there was that.   
  
Blurr, however, was ready to get it over with. He wanted his frame back. He wanted his friends to stop hovering over him.   
  
"You know you're not going to be able to do this naturally," Ratchet said as he scanned Blurr exhibiting a complete calm. Nearby, however, Ricochet vibrated with something akin to anxiety. "I'll have to surgically extract him."   
  
Blurr gritted his denta against the contracting waves in his abdomen, his gestational tank preparing to drop toward the birthing canal. "You might want to do it quicker because I'm guessing he picked up some of my speed."  
  
Ratchet frowned at his scanner. "I think you're right." He tucked away his datapad and hollered into the hallway. "Aid! I'm going to need back up!"  
  
"What the frag does that mean?" Ricochet demanded, pacing back and forth nearby, his armor fluttering and settling and fluttering around his frame. He looked like he needed something to fight.   
  
"Means I need another pair of hands." Ratchet wheeled a cart closer and popped a button on the berth, adjusting it. "You going to be alright, or do I need to banish you to the waiting room?"  
  
"I'll be fine," Ricochet snapped.   
  
He wasn't fine.   
  
Ricochet was banished, and Bluestreak took his place because Jazz was left with the task of keeping Ricochet calmed. Blurr only acknowledged this distantly, because Ratchet pumped a sensory block into him, killing the pain.  
  
It might have left him a little woozy.   
  
He didn't need to do anything but wait as Ratchet and First Aid crowded around him, ready for surgery, and Bluestreak hovered near his head, a firm hand on his shoulder.   
  
"You've got the best," Bluestreak said, sensory panels twitching with obvious excitement, his field warm and comforting. "Everything's going to be just fine."   
  
Blurr believed him.   
  
He had the good drugs.   
  


~

  
  
Ricochet paced back and forth. Back and forth. He wasn't anxious, and he wasn't nervous. He paced because waiting was never something that made him comfortable, and he needed to be doing  _something_.   
  
"You're really gone for him, aren't you?"   
  
"Shut up," Ricochet snapped.   
  
Jazz chuckled and intercepted him on the next pass, one hand on his chestplate. "I wasn't teasing," he said, and leaned up, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ricochet's mouth. "I'm proud of you, bro. I didn't think you'd ever settle."   
  
"We," Ricochet corrected as he rested his hand on Jazz's waist, keeping him from retreating. "Didn't think you'd ever settle either. Now look at you, sickeningly soppy with Bluestreak. It'd be adorable if it didn't make me nauseous."   
  
“Jealous?”   
  
“Not one bit.”   
  
"You're gonna be a good sire, you know," he said, with that incisive way of cutting right to the spark of Ricochet's emotions. They were both guilty of it.   
  
"I didn't have a good example." Ricochet set his chin on Jazz's head, between his sensory horns.   
  
"You had a great example of what not to do."   
  
Hmm. He had a point.   
  
"Could be yours," Ricochet said, because it needed to be said. And anyway, it didn’t matter. What was his was Jazz’s and vice versa.   
  
"Nah." Jazz stepped back, though with a lingering pat to Ricochet's chassis. "I'm lettin' ya claim him. Ain't the family type like you are. Me 'n Blue are just fine without a bitlet underfoot."   
  
"For now?"   
  
Jazz's lips twisted as he contemplated, but he finally shook his head. "Prolly for always. It ain't in my nature, you should know that."   
  
Ricochet hooked a hand in his brother's clavicle strut and tugged Jazz closer, pulling him into a kiss. Not as fierce as one he would've planted if they were alone or at least, somewhere not so public, but still fiery. The taste of his brother calmed the last of the worry winding around his spark, and Ricochet vented, even as he nipped Jazz's lips.   
  
"That's what I needed," he said with a grin.   
  
Jazz flickered his visor, heat flushing over his face. "You're incorrigible. You think you can behave in there with Blurr now?"   
  
The door on the other side of the waiting room sprang open. Ricochet leaned around Jazz and Jazz whirled in surprise.   
  
"Did I miss it!?" Drift skidded into view, optics wide and bright, his vents roaring as though he'd sped through the entirety of Autobot City to get here. Which was likely. "Wait a minute. What are you doing out here, Ricochet? Is everything all right?"   
  
Jazz snickered and patted Ricochet on the cheek. "Ratch tossed him out. He was being a nuisance." He twisted out of reach before Ricochet could grab him. "Who's watching the bar if you're here?"   
  
"I called Riptide." Drift gathered himself and clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together "Is everything going okay?"  
  
"As far as we know." Jazz crinkled his orbital ridges. "Not to be rude or anything, but why are you here?"   
  
Drift cycled his optics. He glanced at Ricochet and then back at Jazz. "Blurr didn't tell you?"   
  
Ricochet groaned and palmed his face. "Please don't tell me it might be yours, too." Primus was there anyone Blurr kept his grubby mitts off?   
  
Drift burst into laughter, and Jazz snickered, too. "No. No, absolutely not." Drift cut his hands in front of him, shaking his head. "There's only room in this spark for one mech." He pressed a hand to his chassis. "No, Blurr made me godsire."   
  
"Of course he did," Ricochet sighed, and maybe it was relief. Jazz being the bitlet's sire he could handle, especially since they’d confirmed it wasn't possibly Tracks'. Having to share the bitlet with Drift?   
  
Not so much.   
  
Ratchet was all right, when he wasn't tossing Ricochet out of his partner's medroom, but Drift was far too optimistic for Ricochet's liking. He missed Deadlock. Now there was a mech Ricochet could get along with. Drift was trying too hard.   
  
"So who's in with Blurr?" Drift asked.  
  
"Blue." Jazz leaned against a nearby wall, tucking one ankle over the other. "He's the only one who could keep a level head." He crossed his arms. "All we can do now is wait."   
  
As if on cue, the door slid open, and Ratchet strode out, wiping his hands with a large meshcloth. He paused as he took count of the number of mechs in the waiting room, one orbital ridge raising when he spotted Drift, who waved at him.   
  
Ratchet took it all in stride. "You can calm down. Blurr's fine. The bitlet's fine. Everyone's fine."   
  
The trio of ex-vents his announcement summoned could have launched a rocket into space.   
  
Ratchet’s optics moved over the three of them as if counting. "Ricochet, you first, then the mob. Luckily, I moved Blurr into a bigger room." He tucked the meshcloth away and gestured for Ricochet to follow.   
  
Jazz snagged his arm before he passed, giving it a brief squeeze in a show of solidarity.   
  
Through the sliding doors, Ratchet led him down a hall, to the first door on the right. It slid open for him, and the harsh smell of chemicals and cleanser stung Ricochet's nasal receptors. His spark shrank inside his chassis, anxiety twisting him up, though he didn't let it show in his face or his field.   
  
Blurr lay on a berth, temp plating over his abdomen, sealant gray around the edges. A small clump of red and blue armor rested on his chassis, huddled over his spark chamber, and Blurr's hand rested on its back.   
  
"You've got five minutes before I let in the chaos," Ratchet murmured, and he stepped out, leaving them alone.   
  
Ricochet slunk toward the berth as Blurr's optics onlined and turned toward him, a bit unfocused and hazy.   
  
"Ratchet gave you the good drugs, huh?" Ricochet asked as he sat down, his hip pressing to Blurr's. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the tiny being on Blurr's chassis.   
  
"The best," Blurr murmured with a little hum, and he gave Ricochet a sleepy smile, waving at him with a few fingers. "I feel no pain."   
  
Ricochet chuckled. Blurr was adorable like this. "I'm a bit jealous." He lifted a hand and paused, memories and worries tangling together and clashing. "Can I hold 'im?"   
  
"That's a stupid question." Blurr lifted his hand. "Take him. Don't think I trust myself to pick him up right now." He paused and gave Ricochet a crooked grin. "Not really sure I have fingers."   
  
Ricochet snorted and reached for the bitlet, who protested the lack of Blurr's hand with little squeaks and squirms. He was so small. Ricochet could cup his sparkling in both hands, and so he did, bringing the bitlet up to his face.   
  
Bright amber optics the same shade as his visor stared back at him. Red and blue armor, still soft but Ricochet knew it would harden, glimmered. The little panels on his back twitched.   
  
He was perfect.   
  
Ricochet pressed a gentle kiss to the bitlet's forehead, quietly making a promise. "I'll never be my sire," he murmured, hopefully too quiet for Blurr to hear. He had a reputation to keep, after all.   
  
A hand touched his chin before he could pull back. The bitlet giggled.   
  
Message received.  
  


~

  
  
Rodimus’ comm beeped.   
  
He groaned and tried to roll over, but a weight on his left arm kept him pinned in place, his external comm just out of reach.   
  
“I have to get that,” he said, trying to ease his arm from under the warm, cuddly weight tucked against him.   
  
Claws sank into his armor, holding him in place. “I have another hour,” came the sleepy, growled reply. “You promised. Or does the promise of an Autobot mean so little?”   
  
“Don’t bring factions into this.” Rodimus rolled back into place, tucking his berthpartner into the curves of his frame. “I was only going to check. I wasn’t leaving the berth.”   
  
“Mmm. Why don’t I believe you?” Lips nuzzled Rodimus’ intake before a glossa slid across his cables, hot and enticing. “There’s a lot we could do in an hour.”   
  
Rodimus chuckled and swept his free hand over warm plating, his fingers finding a wing hinge and giving it a tweak. “This is very true.”   
  
His comm beeped again.   
  
“Ugh.” Starscream pushed back, giving Rodimus some space. “Just answer the damn thing before the beeping ruins what little mood I have left.”   
  
Rodimus laughed. He wriggled onto his back and stretched out, barely snagging his comm so he could answer it. Though it wasn’t a call, but a text message.   
  
“Oh. Blurr went into labor this morning,” Rodimus said as he skimmed through the details. “Ratchet surgically delivered a healthy sparkling.”   
  
“Why is that important for the Prime of Cybertron to know?” Starscream grumbled as he pushed up and slipped between Rodimus’ legs, knees widening his thighs. “Sparklings are pretty standard.”   
  
Rodimus slid the comm back onto the nightstand and gave Starscream his undivided attention. “Because the sire is a Decepticon.”   
  
“Ricochet, I take it.” Starscream mouthed at the top edge of Rodimus’ chestplate and braced his weight to either side of Rodimus’ shoulders, his field unfurling with lustful intent. “I’m still not happy about his arrest, Rodimus.”   
  
“I’ve had a talk with Prowl. We came to an understanding.” A shiver danced up Rodimus’ backstrut while heat pooled southward. “He’s better aware of the political ramifications.”   
  
Starscream snorted and gave him a narrow look. “He was aware before. Don’t be fooled. That mech is a snake in the grass. He knew exactly what he was doing.” He leaned closer, their nasal ridges almost touching. “It takes one to know one.”   
  
“I can handle my business. You worry about yours.”   
  
A knee nudged between Rodimus’ thighs, sliding up toward the apex of them. “I am. Think of how good that sparkling is going to be for Autobot-Decepticon relations. It’ll be a political boon.”   
  
“I’m sure Blurr will be happy to know you’re already considering his spawn for usefulness.” Rodimus rolled his optics, but he was amused to the core of him. That was Starscream to a point, pragmatic and devious.   
  
“Ricochet would understand.” Starscream mouthed at the curve of Rodimus’ jaw, his denta scraping along in the aftermath. “Enough work-talk. I still have fifty-five minutes, and I want every one of them.”   
  
Rodimus chuckled. “I’m all yours.”   
  


~

  
  
“You should name him Rhythm,” Jazz suggested as he straddled a nearby chair, his arms and chin balanced across the back of it.   
  
“I think Gasket is a fine name,” Drift rebutted as he snuggled the bitlet tighter to his chassis and nuzzled his head. “Or maybe Speedy.” He gave Blurr a grin made of sharpened denta.   
  
Ricochet groaned as he came back into the room, stepping right into a discussion that had been nonstop since he’d brought Blurr and the sparkling home. “I’m not taking either of your suggestions.” Though Rhythm had promise, he had to admit. “This is our bitlet, we’re naming him, and we don’t need any help, thank you very much.”   
  
He handed Blurr both blanket and cube of medgrade -- grinning at the look of distaste his partner gave the cube -- and snuggled down into the couch beside Blurr. He tucked Blurr against his side, waited for a protest, and smirked when there wasn’t any. Blurr was cuddly post-birth. He couldn’t even blame the drugs.   
  
“True. Naming one’s sparkling is a time-honored tradition for new parents,” Drift said, and he tickled the bitlet’s belly, provoking a sleepy giggle. “You’ll find a suitable designation when the time is right.”   
  
“Thank you, Drift.” Blurr cut his optics at Jazz pointedly. “The uncle could learn a lot from you.”   
  
Jazz held up his hands, leaning back in the chair. “Hey, I’m the only one with style in this room. Ya don’t want to saddle my kin with a terrible name, do you? The world doesn’t need any more Dents.”   
  
Ricochet chuckled at that. Jazz did have a point.   
  
“Have one of your own and then we can talk,” Blurr retorted.   
  
Everyone else might have missed it, but Ricochet didn’t. He knew his twin too well. He knew how to read the flinch, the quiver of terror in his brother’s field before it was gone again, buried behind the genuine joy he felt for Ricochet’s sake. Ricochet suspected that was a conversation Jazz hadn’t had with Bluestreak yet.   
  
Well, he’d let nature run its course. If no progress was made, Ricochet would have a chat with Bluestreak himself. Jazz could be so damn stubborn sometimes.   
  
“No, thanks,” Jazz said with a laugh, back to his usual playful dismissiveness. He rocked on the chair, making a horrendous clatter. “I’ll leave that honor to you.”   
  
“I hope I can convince Ratch soon,” Drift said, and Ricochet wrinkled his nose at the dreamy look in the once-Decepticon’s optics. “I want a dozen.” He snuggled their sparkling closer, prompting a squeak.   
  
Blurr laughed. “Something tells me Ratchet might draw the line at twelve. But good luck with that.”  
  
“Stop slobbering on my bitlet,” Ricochet added, rolling his optics. “You’re going to infect him with your optimism.”   
  
Blurr gave him a nudge in the side. “That’s not a bad thing.” He finished his cube, and Ricochet took it from him, whisking the empty into subspace rather than move and disturb their cuddle.   
  
“Yes, it is.”   
  
Jazz laughed and launched himself out of the chair, stretching his arms over his head. “Hear that, Drift? That’s the sound of new parents who need to make a decision and we’re just in the way.”   
  
“Speak for yourself,” Drift said, giving Jazz a baleful look. He twisted his frame away from Jazz, curving his arms tighter around the bitlet. “It’s still my turn.”   
  
“I don’t think we’re getting him back,” Ricochet murmured into Blurr’s audial. He stroked Blurr’s shoulder, savoring the warmth of Blurr curled against him, for once without protest.   
  
It was more than nice. It was family. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was.  
  
Blurr chuckled and rested a hand on Ricochet’s thigh, surprisingly chaste considering who they were. “Consider it advertising for a ready and willing sitter.”   
  
Oh. Good point.   
  
“No, it’s time for you to go to work so I can take Bluestreak home,” Jazz corrected as his visor flashed. He stepped into Drift’s space and pressed a kiss to the bitlet’s forehead. “Let’s give my nephew back to his parents, yeah?” He slipped the sparkling free of Drift’s arms before Drift could blink.   
  
It was subtle, but disappointment made Drift sag. He watched Jazz go with evident longing. Ricochet wondered if it would be prudent to perhaps warn Ratchet. But then, he supposed Ratchet knew what he was getting into when he made Drift his conjunx. This couldn’t possibly come as a surprise.   
  
Jazz bounced the bitlet in his arms, and the little one chirped, trying to paw at Jazz but missing terribly. Jazz grinned. “You’re going to be a terror,” he said as he leaned down, depositing their sparkling in Blurr’s waiting arms.   
  
“Considering he’s both of your spawn? Definitely,” Blurr grumbled but he nuzzled the bitlet anyway, feathering his face with kisses. “I’m going to have my hands full.”   
  
“Well, ya have lots of help, so I don’t want to hear any complainin’.” Jazz cut a look toward Ricochet, and Ricochet nodded. Yeah, they’d have a talk later. He could read the worry in his brother’s field as surely as he could read it on Jazz’s face.   
  
They’d both gone through the grinder of war and come out changed, but sometimes, Ricochet worried it had broken his twin. Hopefully, Bluestreak could help put those pieces back together.   
  
“Come on, Drift. Let’s go.” Jazz hooked Drift’s elbow as he passed, tugging him toward the door. “Let the new family get settled.”   
  
Drift let himself be pulled. “I’ll send you the receipts later, Blurr. Let me know if you need anything.”   
  
“Will do.”   
  
They left, and Ricochet ex-vented, head tilting back against the couch. “Finally,” he grumbled as the bitlet squirmed in Blurr’s arms, and Blurr leaned into him, his field screaming exhaustion.   
  
“Gonna nap now,” Blurr said, a touch of static flavoring his words.   
  
“We still need to decide on a name.”   
  
“Later.” Blurr adjusted his hold on their sparkling, and the thrum of his spark soothed the little one like no other sound did. Knew his carrier, their bitlet did.   
  
Ricochet grinned and tucked Blurr against his side, unsurprised when the Racer dropped into a stasis nap almost immediately. Ricochet brushed a finger over his bitlet’s cheek, his spark throbbing with affection as the infant turned into the caress.   
  
He’d almost lost this. He couldn’t believe a single favor for Jazz had turned into this. He supposed he owed his twin a thank you.   
  
The universe had finally done him a solid. Would wonders never cease?   
  


~

  
  
"You ever think about sparklings?"   
  
Bluestreak paused in the middle of his careful knots. It seemed a rather random place for Jazz to be bringing up such a topic, but he suspected it was one that had been percolating all day, and Jazz hadn't felt safe to address it until now.   
  
He finished the knot, smoothed the rope in place, then moved around to face Jazz, surveying his work. The crimson rope twisted and wound over Jazz's frame, striping his armor. He looked gorgeous, and a curl of arousal deepened into a quiet purr in Bluestreak's belly.   
  
But Jazz had asked a question. He watched Bluestreak now, expectation hanging heavy in his field.   
  
Bluestreak moved close enough to cup Jazz's cheek. "No," he answered honestly. "Though maybe what you're asking is a little different. Yes, I've thought about them once. Enough to determine it was the last time I'd think about them. I have no interest." He paused, and carefully concealed his field. "Is that a line for us?"   
  
Jazz tilted his head into Bluestreak's palm. He visibly relaxed, and the ropes drew taut around his frame, finally accepting his weight. "Thank Primus."   
  
"Is that the answer you needed to hear?" Bluestreak asked, letting his field unfurl, offering a taste of the desire pooling inside him.   
  
Jazz answered back with a molten burst of charge. "Yeah. So now that's over, can we get back to the good stuff?"   
  
Bluestreak grinned. He thought of the contract they'd finally agreed on and signed, and maybe, he should have added something about future expectations. But honestly, he was more proud Jazz had asked rather than letting it fester.   
  
"I have one more rope I want to add.” Bluestreak slid his hand down Jazz's frame, teasing his seams, ghosting over his abdomen, before he palmed the damp heat of him -- spike safely stowed.   
  
Jazz shivered, tried to cant his hips forward, but the ropes creaked and held him back. His engine purred approvingly.   
  
Bluestreak brushed a fingertip over Jazz's already swollen node, and slid two fingers into Jazz's valve, slick lubricant immediately soaking them. He curled his fingers, rubbing the cluster of nodes just behind Jazz's rim.  
  
A moan spilled out of Jazz's intake. His shoulders strained at the ropes. He tried to rock his hips again, and got nowhere. His field tangled with Bluestreak’s, pulsing heat and desire and affection.   
  
Maybe he didn’t need the other rope.   
  
Bluestreak stroked deeper, adding a third finger for a stretch that made Jazz keen. His visor flickered, his glossa sweeping over his lips.   
  
“Please, Blue, don’t tease me.” Jazz panted, his valve clenching down on Bluestreak’s fingers, hot and tight and hungry. More lubricant dribbled out as Bluestreak pressed the heel of his hand against Jazz’s swollen nub.   
  
Jazz’s backstrut arched. Charge licked out from under his armor. The ropes criss-crossed over his armor in elegant lines, highlighting all the places his plating glowed.   
  
He was beautiful.   
  
“Tell me what you want, Jazz,” Bluestreak murmured. They hadn’t gotten to other titles yet. They would in time, but Bluestreak wanted it to come naturally. “Ask me for it.”   
  
“You.” Jazz swallowed, his intake bobbing, and his valve rippled around Bluestreak’s fingers. “Just you. Always you.”   
  
He didn’t just mean this moment either. Bluestreak was perceptive enough to pick up on that. He kept stroking Jazz gently, but he leaned in and brushed his lips over Jazz’s.   
  
“You have me,” he murmured as he dragged kisses up the side of Jazz’s jaw and back to his mouth again, Jazz’s ex-vents puffing hot and damp over his dermal net.   
  
Jazz shivered and sank fully into the ropes, letting them hold his weight, his valve rippling taut around Bluestreak’s fingers.   
  
“You’re mine,” Bluestreak added as he slid close enough to curl his arm around Jazz’s waist, tugging him into an embrace. “I’ve claimed you. I’ll share you. But that doesn’t stop you from being mine. I’ve waited a long time for you. I’m not letting go.”   
  
Jazz made a sound, a cross between a whimper and a moan, and his visor turned a deep, spark-blue. His field tangled around Bluestreak’s as if a substitute for the physical motions he couldn’t make, wrapped up in ropes as he was.   
  
He always tested Bluestreak’s restraint.   
  
They fitted together like puzzle pieces, and Bluestreak’s spinal strut zapped charge as he slid into Jazz, his spike replacing his fingers. Jazz melted against him, mouth opening to Bluestreak, Their fields clashed and tangled, desire and arousal intermingling.   
  
His only regret was that they hadn’t done this sooner.   
  


~

  
  
They named him Echo. It was Ricochet's idea, pulled from a list Ricochet made, and of the options, Blurr liked Echo the most. It was closest to Ricochet’s designation, and given how delighted Ricochet was to be a sire, Blurr thought it only fair.   
  
When Ricochet’s visor lit up with delight and he gleefully called the bitlet ‘Echo’ while smothering Echo’s face in kisses, Blurr knew he’d made the right choice.   
  
In more ways than one.   
  
What further proof did he need?  
  
Ricochet intended to stay, intended to help raise Echo, intended to be a present sire. Watching Ricochet hold Echo and tickle him and try to coax energon into his mouth... The realization washed over Blurr.   
  
Ricochet intended to stay.   
  
"Why're you lookin' at me like that?" Ricochet asked as he pushed another dissolvable energon bite into Echo's mouth, and their sparkling chirped happily around his finger.   
  
Blurr smiled. "No reason." He rose from the couch, hiding a wince as his abdomen twinged. A couple more days and he'd be fully healed, but his internals were still settling in place and it was not a comfortable sensation.   
  
Ricochet's visor narrowed at him. "I don't believe you."   
  
"I'm going to take a nap," Blurr declared as he snuck in to plant a kiss on Echo's forehead before tickling his belly.   
  
Echo squeaked a giggle. Primus, he was adorable. Blurr couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought to want this before.   
  
He straightened and kissed Ricochet as well, glossa teasing the seam of his partner’s lips before sliding inside. Ricochet tasted of the midgrade they’d share earlier, and the kiss was unexpectedly gentle. Romantic. Like real partners do.   
  
Blurr grinned and gave Ricochet a wink. "If you can get him to settle into one, too, then maybe you can join me," he said, layering his tone with implications.   
  
Ricochet's engine rumbled, causing Echo to giggle again and grab Ricochet's hand for another treat. He was a hungry little thing. Blurr had zero experience with sparklings, so he hoped that was a good sign. Or maybe he had just as much Racer in him as he did spec ops spy.   
  
"He'll be snoozin' in five minutes," Ricochet declared with a toothy grin, his visor raking Blurr from head to toe, as though he were still attractive even with the temporary welds and the gaps in his armor from unsettled plating. "Don't fall asleep without me."   
  
Blurr tickled Echo's belly again. "I make no promises." He brushed another kiss over his sparkling’s forehead, soaking in the affectionate fields from both important mechs in his life.   
  
It wasn't the life he'd ever imagined for himself. Honestly, he hadn't imagined living through the war, though he'd wanted to. He'd been realistic, deep in the depths of his spark. He knew he was reckless and war was dangerous and mechs left and right of him were dying. He figured at some point, he'd join them.   
  
He didn't know he'd live long enough to see peace. Or to meet someone he'd consider forming a permanent bond with. Or to carry a sparkling. They were so distant as to be impossible, nothing bearing consideration.   
  
And yet.   
  
Here he was.   
  
Exclusive with Ricochet. A sparkling born of his own tank. He owned his own business. He had a place to live. Random threats aside, he was safe.   
  
It was almost too good to be true.   
  
But damn if Blurr wasn't glad he had it.   
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged. :)


End file.
